


What You Know Is True

by nyxocity



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A life without you?, Angst, Dalish, Dragon Age Lore, Eventual Smut, Eventually Resolved Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 94,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxocity/pseuds/nyxocity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she meets Cullen, he saves her life on the battlefield. From that moment on, she's drawn to him, but with Inquisition business, the mark on her hand and the demons falling into the world across Thedas, she's so busy she barely has time to get to know him, and when she does, things can tend to get awkward. As the stakes grow higher, her feelings for him grow stronger, and they begin to form a friendship that slowly deepens. In between killing demons, hunting Samson, red Templars and the Venatori, the barrier between them is starting to dissolve. Now, if she can just survive long enough to figure out this thing between them and save the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Less Than Auspicious

The first time she meets him, she is hurtling toward almost certain death--freshly out of chains with a glowing mark on her hand that somehow closes green holes in the sky that spit out demons. She is surrounded by strangers; a human who'd probably like to see her dead, a dwarf who named his crossbow after a woman and an elf who seems strangely excited by it all. 

A sickly green, crystalline shape hangs in the sky, tendrils of emerald mist clinging to its ever-shifting prisms, and beneath it, soldiers lunge and yell, swords cutting through demons made of the same mist. Projectiles fly from them, one of them hitting her in the shoulder. The substance hisses and burns away the cloth of her coat straight through to the skin, just like the last five times she's been hit with it, and she can barely feel it now, much less get worked up enough to cry out in pain. Spells drained, she brings her staff to bear and fires, frost flying from the tip, gratified when her hit lands, last mist demon dissipating on the wind, fragments sucked back into the crystal.

For a moment, everything is silent, and she thinks maybe it's finally over—and then the crystal explodes into a hazy cloud, the woman named Cassandra calling out to get ready for the next wave. 

She grits her teeth and pulls out a potion, teeth yanking out the cork, lips sucking it down in one quick draught. She can feel the burns on her skin healing, but not enough, not completely. 

The arms snaking out from the center of the cloud flash almost white at the ends, demons appearing from each. Too late, she realizes her mistake, the demons formed in a ring around her and a cluster of soldiers.

They come as one, closing to the center, strange 'S' shaped bodies moving like upright snakes, a mass of deadly muscle and tendon that ends in razor sharp talons. A soldier yells out a battle cry, and the demons veer, their attention focusing on him. She takes advantage of the moment, retreating backward as Cassandra rushes forward, her sword cleaving into the shoulder of one of the demons. She calls flashfire to her fingertips, launching fire the size and shape of a canon ball at one of the monsters. From behind her comes a cone of cold air, moisture in the air turning to crystals and crackling, freezing one of the demons in place, misshapen body covered in a rime of thick ice. An arrow flies, hitting the creature and shattering it into a million glittering pieces.

She thrusts the end of her staff against the ground, sending lightning surging from her body through it, hitting the same demon she'd hit before, its fish-belly pale skin cracking with purple energy. This time, it notices her, turning away from the pack focused on Cassandra and the remaining soldiers. It's on her before she can take more than a step backward, staff firing ice into its belly as its talons fall, slicing through her shoulder, shredding cloth and flesh to the bone in a violent spray of blood. She staggers backward, screaming anger and pain, whirling her staff and cracking the end across what passes for its face. Out of mana, she calls for help, but she can see Cassandra is caught in a thick knot of demons, and if Solas and Varric's shouts are anything to go by, they have problems of their own.

The demon catches her across the chest this time, tearing ragged furrows deep in her breastbone. She staggers back another step, huffing out a breath, world slowing down and vision dimming. Tries to bring fire to her fingertips, but her hand doesn't respond, dangling dead at the end of her useless arm. Heartbeat hammering in her ears, lungs struggling to draw breath, and she can't let go of her staff, no matter how badly she needs another health potion. She fires another blast of cold into the demons face and hears it bleat in pain and surprise, her blood quickening in response. It's close to death, if she can just--

The demon lashes out in a last desperate attack, razor sharp claws aimed at her face, and she 's slow, too slow--

A sword comes down in a flashing arc, tips of talons just grazing her cheek before its arm falls to the ground, severed at the elbow. Blood spurts from the ragged stump as the demon howls in agony, and the hands holding the hilt twist the angle of the sword, thrusting the weapon between the creatures eyes. Its scream cuts off instantly, twisted body dropping like a stone to the snow.

The man—she can see it's a man now—yanks his sword free from the demon with a thick, wet sound, and she doesn't waste another second, catching her staff under her good arm and using it for support, fingers fumbling for the smooth glass of another health potion. 

He's already gone as she throws the empty bottle to the ground, hearing it shatter as she conjures fire, feeling protective energy surge around her as Solas casts a barrier spell. The battle is all but done, now, and she savors the remainder, relishing the feeling of vengeance with each kill.

She hadn't gotten a good look at the man who'd helped her in between downing the potion and him sprinting away to finish off the remaining demons; just a brief image of wavy, dark blond hair above broad shoulders covered in animal fur that trailed to a point over the back of his silver armor.

Whoever he is, he saved her life.

*

After the rift is closed, she spots the distinctive mane of fur covering broad shoulders, his body bent forward as he wipes the blood from his sword on one of the fallen demon bodies. He stands then, sheathing it and turning, hand resting on the pommel as he surveys the area with sharp eyes.

She had been going to step forward, tell him thank you. Saving her life is one of the nicest things anyone's done for her in _ever_ , never mind today. But then he'd turned around and now she can see his face.

She's never been the type to discount a human's looks based on their race, and she's seen some truly beautiful ones. But this man is _gorgeous_ , striking in a way she's rarely, if ever, seen. Expressive hazel eyes almost the exact same shade as his short, wavy hair, wide set, prominent cheekbones above a strong jaw almost as wide, pale pink lips just full enough to make her think about kissing them, shadow falling in the scar cutting across his upper lip on the right side, and she can't figure out why it's so sexy, but it is. Day old stubble along his jaw, like he was too busy to shave this morning, and he looks like he hasn't slept much in the last few months, skin perhaps a shade too pale, yet somehow it all only makes him even _more_ attractive.

It's more than looks, though. It's the way he stands, strong and confident and ready for anything, armor scarred but obviously well cared for. A sense of command and control emanates from him, his mere presence drowning out all the suits of armor moving around him. He's not just a soldier, of that much she's sure.

He steps forward, walking in her direction, and she starts to smile, words of thanks rising to her lips, dying stillborn as he speaks.

“Lady Cassandra.” His voice is deep and rich, she notices, as Cassandra moves between them. “You managed to close the rift. Well done.”

Cassandra sighs heavily, a sound she's already becoming accustomed to hearing. “Do not congratulate me, Commander. This is the prisoner's doing.” Cassandra turns to the side and gestures toward her. 

“Is it?” he asks, seeming unimpressed as he meets her eyes for the first time. If he recognizes her from the battle, it doesn't show in his expression. “I hope they're right about you. We've lost a lot of people getting you here.”

Oddly enough, it's still not the worst welcome she's gotten today.

Well, then. “You're not the only one hoping that.”

“We'll see soon enough, won't we?” he asks, striding forward and turning his attention back to Cassandra. 

They speak for a few moments longer, and then he walks in the opposite direction from where they're headed. Her eyes linger on him, turning to watch him leave, and she sees him jog up to a limping soldier, getting a shoulder under the man's arm and helping him walk.

She didn't get to thank him.

She pulls her eyes away and begins moving with her strange little group toward the breach. Clouds swirl like a tempest, malevolent green wound that looks big enough to swallow the world.

He probably only bought her another half an hour at most, anyway.

 

*

Leliandra, Cassandra, Varric, Solas, all the scouts and soldiers lie fallen, bodies scattered like leaves across the ground.

She is alone, amulet around her throat shattering when the gigantic demon snaps its twin whips made of electricity against the air, bringing them down across her back. A sharp smell fills the air, charge biting through her skin, frying every nerve in her body and driving her to her knees. The damage is extensive, and she knows she should have gone all the way down, out cold or dead like everyone else. But somehow, the amulet gives her just enough energy and time to down the final health potion.

The ground shakes as the demon moves in, enormous bulk bearing down on her with chortling laughter.

Sweat and blood pour from her in waves and she closes her eyes, takes a deep, shaky breath. She doesn't know what happened at the conclave, she doesn't know why she was spared, she doesn't know where this mark on her hand came from, but she does know one thing: she isn't ready to die, yet.

 _Mythal, watch over me_ , she prays, thrusting her open hand upward in a last, desperate attempt. Energy leaps from her palm to the crystal hanging in the air, connecting with a burst of light. She can feel power thrumming through her, vibrating her to the very bone, rising higher and higher until she thinks she will shake apart—and then she yanks back her hand, closing it into a fist.

She falls backward, world exploding in white light, booming sound like thunder filling her ears, and then blackness crushes her beneath its sudden weight.


	2. Providence

Days later, she opens her eyes to find herself in a bed in the village of Haven, and much of what happens after that is a blur. Walking beaten dirt paths lined with soldiers and villagers, most of them staring at her with open awe. None of it makes sense, not even when Leliandra and Cassandra explain it. Not even when Cassandra pulls out a book, slams it on the table and gives Chancellor Roderick the “Bitch, did I stutter?” beat down. She still isn't sure she understands when she takes Cassandra's hand and helps form the Inquisition. 

She is the only one who can seal the rifts and potentially save the world. Because of that, some people think she's dangerous. Some people think she's their only hope and some think she's guilty of what happened at the conclave and that she needs to be eradicated as soon as possible. Because those latter people exist, she won't be safe anywhere she goes and will endanger anyone around her. She gathered all of that—she just doesn't know how she ended up here.

She _definitely_ didn't foresee any of this happening when she woke up today.

She decides to go back to bed and sleep for another few days. Maybe she'll wake up and discover all of this has been a terrible nightmare.

 

*

After she's slept as long as she can and then lain in bed until wide awake until she can't stand it anymore, she meets Cassandra in the Chantry. Cassandra leads her through the wooden door where they'd shook hands and begun this whole operation.

The room is greatly changed, map spread out on the massive table, countries of Orlais and Ferelden taking up most of the space. 

There are three people standing behind the table, and she looks up to greet them, faltering as her gaze meets hazel eyes she remembers all too well.

“You've already met Commander Cullen.”

“It was only for a moment on the field. I'm pleased to see you survived.” His smile is easy and genuine, nothing like the terse man she'd met on said battlefield. And hell, she hadn't thought he could be any more handsome, but more relaxed, smile lighting up his face, he somehow is.

It's bear fur that forms the mane around his shoulders, unless she misses her guess, and she's sure she doesn't, given how many times she'd helped skin one. For warmth? Or does it have some greater significance?

Cassandra introduces her to Josephine next, who greets her in elven, which excites her for a moment before Josephine confesses the greeting is all the elven she knows. Leliandra is re-introduced last as a spymaster, her features so delicate and finely made that she could almost be of elven blood.

The three of them are arguing about siding with the mages or Templars to permanently close the breach and she keeps silent, her attention wandering to the streaks of red in the bear fur. She's never seen a bear with that particular pattern. 

Cullen mentions he used to be a Templar and she snaps to attention. She may not know as much about the human mages or Templars as they do, but she knows enough. The mages guardians turned jailers, given power by lyrium to disarm, shut down and even destroy a mage. 

He _used_ to be a Templar? Why had he--

And then they drop the biggest surprise of all on her—which is saying something given the week she's had.

The Herald of Andraste? Stunned isn't a strong enough word to describe what she feels right now. _Andraste_? Human bride of the human god called the Maker? Fenedhis, are the humans as stupid as some of her clan claimed them to be? She's an _elf_ , she worships the gods of her people. How can she possibly be the Chosen of a human goddess?

“Exactly how am I the Herald of Andraste?” she demands.

Cassandra explains, and she wonders exactly how it's possible that this crazy situation has gotten even crazier.

“It's quite the title, isn't it?” Cullen asks. “How do you feel about that?”

Mythal help her, he actually sounds _amused_.

“I'm no Herald of anything. Particularly not Andraste.”

A low laugh escapes him as he replies, “I'm sure the Chantry would agree.” He's fairly smirking and Creators, he _is_ amused. Though whether he's amused by the Chantry or by her situation, she isn't sure.

The rest of their meeting passes in something of a haze, happening somewhere far away outside her, and she just barely grasps the mission they want her to complete.

*

 

The next few days continue to be a whirlwind, fighting demons and closing rifts in the Hinterlands.

Varric is something of a delight, Cassandra an enigma in that she seems to speak directly from her heart and yet there still seems to be so much more, an old soul buried deep in her bones. Solas is... different, not at all what she's come to expect of elves, not even city elves, but he's still pleasant enough. At least until the third night in the Hinterlands when Cassandra and Varric retire to their tents, leaving them alone at the campfire. Their conversation goes well enough at first, speaking of spirits and the Fade, and she finds herself fascinated by his knowledge. And then she asks him about elves. His distaste for the Dalish comes through clearly, and they argue bitterly several times before she leaves him alone by the fire, anger still seething in her veins, venom on her lips.

*

After the failure in Val Royeaux, they come to an unspoken accord. She isn't sure why it happens, exactly, but she's happy enough to bridge the gap between them, glad to speak with another mage who isn't Vivienne, another elf who isn't Sera.

It's Solas who teaches her the names and powers and weaknesses of the various demons that spawn from the rifts, showing her sketches of them in tomes so old and unwieldy she thinks they must be held together by obstinance alone. 

She wonders if the books survive the extremely wet trip to the Storm Coast where they recruit Iron Bull and his Chargers

*

She spends some time chatting with Iron Bull when they return to Haven, and when he points out what a good job Cullen has done with the soldiers, she has to agree. 

When she's finished talking to Bull, she walks over to where the soldiers are practicing, meaning to ask Cullen his thoughts on why the Templars left Val Royeaux. The sound of steel against steel rings out on the crisp mountain air, Cullen at the center of it all, giving commands on shield positioning.

He steps back as she approaches, folding his arms across his chest. “We've received a number of recruits, locals from Haven and some pilgrims.” He turns his head to look at her directly. “None made quite the entrance you did.”

“At least I got everyone's attention,” she replies.

“That you did,” he agrees without question, sounding impressed and pleased.

She follows him through the camp as he explains how he came to join the Inquisition, all the while looking over the document a messenger had handed him. He'd left the Templar order when Cassandra had offered him a position? Interesting. Anyone with faith so strong they'd join the Templar order didn't strike her as someone who'd leave it on a whim.

She supposes she gets part of her answer a moment later when he tells her how the Chantry debates the new Divine when they should be focusing on the immediate problem of the breach, how the Inquisition can act where the Chantry cannot. She'd wondered if he was laughing at her or the Chantry earlier, when he'd asked her how she liked the title 'Herald'; now she's ninety percent sure he'd been laughing at the Chantry.

He's so passionate about what the Inquisition can achieve, hands gesturing emphatically for a moment—and then he stops, reigning himself in. “Forgive me, I doubt you came here for a lecture.”

She's entranced by his passion, reluctant to let him withdraw so easily. Her voice drops, low and throaty, lightly teasing. “No, but if you have one prepared I'd love to hear it.”

He rests his hands on the pommel of his sheathed sword and glances away, chuckling. “Another time, perhaps,” he says, meeting her eyes again.

She doesn't say anything, corner of her mouth tugging in a smile, arching one brow as she holds his gaze.

“I, uh...” He clears his throat, eyes glancing to the side, then focusing on her. “There's still a lot of work ahead.”

How can he be so gorgeous and adorably awkward at the same time? It almost isn't fair.

“Commander,” a messenger calls, walking toward them. “Ser Rylen has a report on our supply lines.”

Cullen looks over at her again, already beginning to move in the messenger's direction. “As I was saying...” he says by way of goodbye.

She watches him walk away, speaking intently with the messenger as he inspects the report he'd been handed. 

Damn, she'd been so distracted she'd forgotten what she'd meant to ask him in the first place.


	3. A Rose By Any Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's in a name?

It's a rare night, one spent in the village of Haven inside the confines of Solas' quarters, candles guttering low and casting strange shadows on the walls as they finish reading. She stretches, yawning, hesitating, and surely they've gotten to know each other well enough by now that she can talk to him about this, the feeling still burning inside her like a living thing even after a week, flames fanned by almost everyone she's seen or spoken to.

"'Herald of Andraste'." She speaks the words with such sarcasm they fairly drip from her mouth. "For all they--for all **I** \--know, I could have been sent by the Dread Wolf to trick them into ending the world."

"People ascribe meaning to everything as it suits them." Solas tilts his head in a slight shrug.

"It doesn't bother you that they're calling an elf the Herald of Andraste?" she asks, perplexed by his ambivalence.

"I hardly see how it matters what they call you."

"So if they called me the Beloved of Maferath or the Consort of Fen'Harel?"

Solas merely looks at her for a long moment, and she cannot catch the thread of thoughts she sees clearly within his eyes. "I meant I hardly see how it matters what they call you, so long as the way they view you remains the same. Those titles would obviously have a different meaning. Show a different view than the way they see you now."

She makes a noise of disgust, rolling her eyes. "Ugh. I'm an elf surrounded by elves who are not elves."

"I don't think Sera and I would be quite enough elves to surround you." The corner of his mouth quirks, and if she didn't know better—if she didn't know how he felt about the Dalish—she might think he was flirting with her.

“Sometimes it seems like it,” she mutters, pushing up from her seat.

*

Dawn breaks pale pink against the snow, wan light invading her sleep far too early. She shifts, rolling over in the bed, pillow pulled over her face.

Twenty minutes or so later, she finally admits defeat, sighing as she throws the pillow aside. She washes in the basin she'd put next to the hearth last night, snow melted water almost too warm, and then dons her enchanter's coat. It's a simple piece of clothing, crafted with Herrit's help, white leather Nugskin and an undercloth made of lustrous cotton, not long enough to be called a proper mage robe.

She remembers what she'd been going to ask Cullen yesterday. They'll be leaving for the Hinterlands this morning and won't be returning until after they speak with the mages in Redcliffe, and then a decision will have to be made. If she wants insight into the Templars actions, she should get it now.

She heads down the muddy, snow-strewn path out through the gates and turns right.

He stands there, proud and tall in his armor, mane of bear fur blowing in the breeze, a formidable silhouette cut against the backdrop of slowly brightening sky. Soldiers clash all around him, feinting and slashing, swords and shields clanging and clattering as they practice. 

“Herald,” Cullen greets her as she approaches, turning to give her his full attention.

“I have a name.” The words come out clipped and short, angrier than she'd intended.

“Of... of course,” he responds after a moment, seeming thrown. “Forgive me. I'm used to following protocol in terms of title.”

He looks so apologetic that she feels sorry for him. Sorry enough that she doesn't point out that he calls Cassandra 'Lady Cassandra' instead of 'Seeker'. “Are we in the field, Commander?” she asks, more gently, putting emphasis on the last word, giving him a small smile.

“No... I suppose we aren't. Ah, your name, it's Marenowin, right?” He seems to test the name on his tongue, tasting the syllables. “Am I pronouncing it correctly?”

“It's Mare-in-noh-win,” she corrects, stepping away from the din of the soldiers, moving closer to the pines to one side. She waits until he follows, and then goes on in a lower tone of voice. “But you can call call me Maren. It's what I'm used to.” 

“Maren,” he agrees with an incline of his head.

It feels like relief to hear her name spoken aloud, weeks without the sound, and to hear it spoken by him makes it even sweeter. She hadn't even had to tell him, which makes her wonder... “How did you know my name?”

He makes a scoffing noise, folding his arms across his chest as he regards her. “I do read the files. It's part of the job.”

Oh. “Leliana's file,” she says, feeling suddenly vulnerable, wondering how much he knows about her. Leliana must have collected a good deal of information on her while she was held prisoner. 

Her discomfort must be apparent, because his voice softens, arms falling to his sides as he goes on. “I only know a little. I didn't read any of the more... personal information. It didn't seem right.”

She nods once, meeting his gaze. “So, what do you know?”

“Only your name, clan name, very basic information.”

At least he'd been respectful of her privacy. She isn't sure why she'd thought he wouldn't be; he's been nothing but respectful of her

And then he goes on, “And that you're a mage of considerable talent according to your clan.”

Her stomach drops like a stone to her feet. Of course, that would be the part that was important to him. Her, a mage, and he a former Templar. What must she look like to him? With her elven ears, sharp jaw and pointed chin, ice blue eyes and long red hair braided on one side, the vallaslin of June tattooed in the color of cobalt across her freckled features. She must seem a strange, wild creature to him-- and a potentially deadly one, at that. Dressed in her enchanter's coat, a spell book attached to her belt and a magical staff strapped to her back. 

“Does that present a problem?” she asks, entirely missing the note of levity she aims for. 

“What? No, of course not.” He sounds so taken aback that she feels momentarily guilty for having asked. “I only meant...” he trails off, seeming uncomfortable. “I didn't mean to imply anything except that your clan seemed quite proud of your abilities. Forgive me, sometimes I'm not very good at this.”

He seems so sincere that it sets her at ease, and she smiles at him, curious now. “Talking to people?” 

“For starters,” he replies, his amusement dry.

She lifts a hand, waving it through the air, and shakes her head slightly. It isn't his fault that people are calling her 'the Herald of Andraste', and he's done nothing to warrant her mistrust. “It was my fault for being so sensitive. I seem to have woken up on the wrong side of bed this morning.” She takes a step further toward the trees and crosses her arms. “I was talking to Solas last night, and he said it shouldn't matter that people call me the Herald, what matters is how people view me.”

Cullen hesitates, seeming to think that over before he replies. “I'd say that's a fair assessment. But you don't like the title, I take it?”

“It's maddening,” she sighs, breath turning to mist on the air. “I'm elven, I worship elven gods. But it's like the more I tell people I'm not the Herald of Andraste, the more determined they are to call me that.”

Cullen steps up beside her, looking out at the pines. “People see what gives them comfort. Once, I would have found peace in believing you were the Herald of Andraste.”

She turns to regard him curiously, eyes narrowing on him a fraction. “You don't believe it though, do you?” 

“I wish I could,” he admits, lifting one foot and tapping the tip against the snow. “I believe in the Maker and Andraste, but I've seen too much to believe they would intervene directly. Still,” he lifts a shoulder and looks at her sidelong, “I can't deny what you might accomplish. You have the mark.”

“And a name.”

“Maren,” he agrees, word hanging between them for a long moment. He clears his throat, glancing away. “I'll do what I can not to add to your annoyance. But in the presence of other people, you understand I'll--”

“Yes, yes. Protocol and all that.” She nods her understanding. “Anyway. I was being over sensitive because of my title, and you didn't deserve my anger. I'm sorry. Shall we start over?”

“Please.” The smile he gives her in return is warm, and she has to admit, it's rather mesmerizing.

“Did you want me to go first?” he asks after moment, seeming confused.

“I, no, sorry.” She laughs at her own mistake and then takes a deep breath, finding her place. “So... I wanted to ask about the Templars..."


	4. Tying Threads

She has a few things she wants to finish in the Hinterlands before she sets out to talk to the mages. They seem like simple enough things.

They fight three great bears, five assassins and a pack of wild dogs trying to set up camp in the southwest of the Hinterlands, her and Blackwall the last two left standing. Solas and Cassandra lie unconscious on the ground and she's near the end of her rope, world spinning at an angle as she casts a barrier spell.

Blackwall brings his sword down where the assassin's neck meets his shoulder, cleaving him in half to the sternum.

“We should set up camp,” Blackwall says, cleaning his sword on the clothes of the dead man.

Maren wants to make camp, she really does, but then a bear roars behind her and she spins, falling back a step as she casts barrier.

Cassandra and Solas are barely on their feet from the last fight. She throws immolation first, then every other spell she has in her arsenal.

The bear goes down beneath their combined efforts, and she sighs, finally beginning to set up camp.

When they've finished, she decides to scout the area to the back of the camp, a rise that ends in an abrupt cliff, and finds a griffon feather near an old camp site. Blackwall's as pleased as can be to find a Grey Warden item, carefully smoothing the feather and wrapping it in a piece of cloth to tuck inside his bag. He's barely finished retying the knots on his pack when a sudden roar comes from their right.

A gigantic paw hits her in the back of the skull, and she smacks into the ground so hard she sees stars.

*

The rifts in Hafter's woods leave them bloodied and bruised, almost proving too much for them. One hangs in the middle of circle of stone pillars, and when she closes it, she's mystified by the inexplicable cheese wheel lying in the grass in the center of the circle. It reminds her of a song-game she's seen human children play sometimes, their hands interlaced and forming a circle as they rotate clockwise, singing, _'The cheese stands alone'_ , around one child standing in the center by themselves.

She's still pondering the significance of it as an assassin materializes from thin air, twin blades stabbing Solas in the back. Instantly, she casts a barrier spell on the group, falling back into stance as she calls flame to her hand. From her right comes a loud roar and she sighs even as she launches fire at the assassin. 

It wouldn't be a real party without a bear.

*

“How many fucking bears can there be?” Blackwall asks, winded as he cleans his sword on the fur of the most recently killed bear.

A roar answers his question, and Maren is done.

Bears were said to be beloved by the god Dirthamen, keeper of secrets, but right now Maren wishes Fen'Harel had sealed them all away with Dirthamen himself –the better for him to love them. It's an uncharitable thought, bordering on blasphemy, but Fenedhis she's had enough of bears.

*

They spend the night recovering in Forest Camp, Maren and Blackwall passing back and forth a bottle of wine she'd found in a “bandit” camp they'd cleaned out earlier. It's nothing noteworthy as far as she can tell, label worn and faded white, but it gets the job done, and that's all she cares about. It's been a crazy couple of weeks, they'd fought hard today and this is a welcome respite, campfire warming her bones, alcohol warming her belly, leaving her feeling fuzzy around the edges.

Cassandra and Solas pass on the bottle, and she shrugs, toasting the bottle at Blackwall as she takes another drink from it. More for them.

Cassandra seems indifferent to their imbibing as she says goodnight, and Solas excuses himself shortly thereafter, his opinion on the situation less clear. 

“He's a complicated man,” she says, watching Solas lift the tent flap and duck inside.

“Solas?”Blackwall asks. “Maybe complicated, but smart. Don't play Diamondback with him. You've been warned. I taught him the game one night in Haven and he beat me. Had to walk back to my quarters with nothing but a bucket for my bits.”

“Solas? Played cards with you for _clothing items_?” She can't even begin to imagine.

“It was all I had left to bet with.” Blackwall shrugs and tips back the bottle, taking a long drink before he wipes at his beard and shakes his head mournfully. “Should've gotten out while I still could.”

“That's a walk of shame I'd have liked to have seen.” She chuckles, trying to imagine it, reaching for the bottle. He hands it to her, eyeing her with something she can't quite put a name to... admiration? Curiosity? Both?

“I must say, milady, you continue to surprise me.”

She almost asks him to call her by name, but she hesitates, unsure why she does so. Being called 'Herald' grates on her nerves like a dull blade, but Blackwall's never called her that, always referring to her as “milady”. It's a welcome change and a term of respect no one else has ever bestowed on her, and she supposes she rather likes it. It does feel a bit strange, though.

“Surprise you? Why? Because I like to have fun on occasion? Surely you've met many people who like to enjoy themselves.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But none quite like you.”

She's suddenly aware of how alone they are, how _close_ they are sitting on the log beside the fire, her hip touching his. He wants her, that much is clear, though he'd never make a move without her approval, and she could have this; take it for what it is. A man wanting a woman, and she knows he'd be sweet, rough with his sweetness, perhaps, but she's not adverse to that.

She looks away, into the fire, then tilts the bottle up, taking a long drink. “So you know something about Solas. What about the rest of our group?”

“Did you have anyone in particular in mind?” he asks, not even blinking at the change in subject, and she really does like him. Almost wishes she liked him more.

That Sera doesn't know who she is, or even wants to isn't really news, but it's something to hear it said out loud by someone else. Varric's alleged descriptions of Blackwall in what is sure to be the book he's writing about all this aren't surprising, but they are hysterical, filled with brooding beards and eternally furrowed brows. It's some time before she finally asks him about Cullen, and Blackwall takes a moment, tilting back the bottle and swallowing, elbow falling to his knee, bottle turned back and forth between his fingers.

“He's got the look of a man who's been through too much. He's seen the best and the worst of humanity, and I think he still struggles with where that leaves him. Still, I'd trust him to watch my back.”

It's such a simple assessment, and entirely accurate based on what she knows. Cullen hadn't wanted to speak of what had happened at the Circle, but it had clearly changed him.

“I left you a drink,” Blackwall says, handing her the bottle. “And now I'm going to bed while I still have some dignity left.”

It's on the tip of her tongue to say she'd like to see him without his dignity—habit, and she's always been a bit of a flirt. But saying that here and now would put them on the precipice of something beyond friendship.

“Thank you,” she says, instead.

“Good night, milady,” he says as he rises.

“Good night.”

Tomorrow, they'll take out the “bandit” fortress, finish up the last bit of business they have in the Hinterlands besides Redcliffe. And then, she'll meet the mages.

  



	5. In Hushed Whispers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt like “In Hushed Whispers” had a huge effect on my character. This is where she begins to understand how much really depends on her. Canon is tweaked to reflect said impact. Also, Cullen.

It happens so fast she can barely follow it-- Alexius' hand an open grasping claw, amulet floating above his palm in a pool of green, Dorian crying out 'no' and throwing a counter spell--

A portal opens, yawning green spiral, black center that feels ravenous with magic as it pulls her in, body seeming to stretch and lengthen. Feet snatched from the ground, tether snapping and she spins like a whirlwind, faster and faster in a sea of emerald until the center devours her, thread pulled through the eye of a needle.

From the moment she lands waist deep in water, surrounded by red lyrium crystals and fighting for her life, she's lost. Dorian's the only thing she can cling to as she grasps at the shredded pieces of this world, trying to make sense of them. Thrown forward in time, and what is this place? Can it truly be Redcliffe castle? Huge red lyrium crystals grow in clusters, jutting from the walls, floor, ceiling, dominating every room and hall in the castle. She does everything she can not to touch them, horrified by the sheer _amount_ of it, and all she can think is how disappointed Varric must be in her, because it's nearly impossible _not_ to come in contact with. 

Varric, for his part, says nothing, perhaps past the futility of trying to avoid it. Varric and Cassandra, infected by red lyrium, eyes glowing eerie red, strange crystalline song emanating from their bodies and all around them. Despair tries to claw its way up from her guts, and it's only with a monumental effort that she keeps it in place, refusing to let it overwhelm her. One foot in front of the other, keep moving and they'll find a way, get back to where they're supposed to be. Keep moving and she'll forget the sight of Fiona pressed against a wall, violent red stalagmites of lyrium growing from her half absorbed body. Forget that death hovers over her friends like a red specter, biding its time.

Leliana is a withered husk, scant flesh and gray skin clinging to bone, and Maren wonders what kind of magic they must have used to do this much irreparable harm and still keep her alive. She looks like a walking corpse, shape of her skull visible through what little flesh remains, vibrant blue eyes now faded dull, sunken deep into the sockets. That she speaks with purpose and moves with determination would be miraculous on its own, but she is more; vicious anger and vengeance that will not rest.

All of them, so changed. _This_ is what happens if she's not there to stop Alexius and the Elder One? How can she, a single elf, unremarkable except for the mark on her hand, be all that stands in the way of this? She feels like she's still slogging through the waist deep water they'd landed in when they'd gotten here.

She opens the door to a metal catwalk that forms an L shape. Skeletal figures dangle from above , strung from the thick chains that hold the walkway in place, cavernous room cast in shades of violent crimson and cold cyan where the blackness of shadows is absent. One of the bodies shifts on its rigging, dislocated by their passage beneath it, and she looks up, catching sight of familiar armor, a few patches of long hair still clinging to the skull.

He'd stayed, then. Had any of the other Wardens joined him in the fight?

“Keep moving,” Leliana urges. 

Maren looks at her, about to protest, to tell her that they need to get him down—but she can see the moment their eyes meet that Leliana already knows who's hanging up there. 

“There's nothing we can do.”

“We could give him some dignity,” she retorts, voice sharp.

“And what of all these others?” Leliana shoots back, unrelenting. “Should we cut them all down? Give them rest while the world continues to die?”

“I knew him.” It's all she has.

“Perhaps you're right,” Leliana allows, although she doesn't sound convinced. “Perhaps I've seen too much. The fact that you still care about such things...” 

Leliana trails off, turning, and with a leap she scales the huge chain, pulling a dagger from her belt. An instant later, the rope is cut loose, and Maren watches his body fall into the chasm beneath them, listening in vain to hear him hit bottom. There's nothing but silence, and Leliana returns to her side with a look and a nod, as if to say it's done.

They open the next door to a courtyard, and Maren blinks against the sudden bright green light. She holds a hand up to shade her eyes, blinking rapidly—and then she gets her first view of the sky.

Bricks and battlements and pieces of statues are carelessly flung in the air like a child's toys, against all sense, they hang suspended in place against a backdrop of roiling green clouds. The whole sky spins with them as far as she can see. “The breach,” she gasps in disbelief. “It's everywhere.”

Leliana explains how it began in Thedas and spread across the world while Maren stands open mouthed at the sight. High up, floating in the distance, she can see the silhouette of an entire castle ripped from its moorings, green light bleeding through the tower windows. Closer, the armored head and outstretched open hand of a gigantic statue hovers over the courtyard, its face carved in a serene expression at odds with everything around it.

She gathers all her strength and moves forward, only to stop again before enormous red lyrium growth at the center of the courtyard. It dwarfs anything she's seen so far, huge crystals thrusting upward to more than twice her height and then growing jaggedly right in a diagonal shift that defies gravity itself. The place where the diagonal growth begins is ragged with smaller crystals, but just to the side and above them...

There's a single skeleton trapped just inside the surface, stripped to bare gleaming bone, armor glinting dully on its chest and arms, and there's something darker, a shadow of something.... 

No.

It's fur. Ragged fur still clinging to the shoulders.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd imagined him still out there, still free and fighting. Strong and rebellious and alive, commanding an army.

“He lead the first assault against the demon armies.” Leliana stands beside her, head tilted backward to look. “He won so many battles that they say it took the intervention of Elder One himself to take him down.”

It's the most Leliana's said about what happened so far, and Maren wonders why, feels sick with the knowledge.

“The Last Lion, they called him.” Leliana pauses for a moment, as if remembering, and then her tone grows colder, filled with fury when she speaks again. “And the Elder One had Alexius put him here, a place of _'honor'_ ,” Leliana fairly spits the word.

A warrior and a hero, but more than that, a man she had liked, a _good_ man who had called her by her name, who hadn't wanted to ask that she offer herself as bait when all this began, now trapped like a fly in amber, a grisly trophy preserved forever without hope of dignity. Her fingers clench around her staff, magic crackling in the air around her.

“I do love a good tour,” Dorian says from behind her, “but perhaps we could--”

She lifts her staff, firing into the face of the red lyrium, lightning scorching the surface, rippling outward in purple bolts, again, again, again, staff banging against the stone of the courtyard as she spins, lifting and firing until his skeleton is completely obliterated, lyrium blackened and shattered to the core. The overgrown diagonal shaft creaks, most of its support gone, and she fires again, lightning crackling on the air until it breaks, red lyrium two stories tall falling to the courtyard stone and exploding. 

Shards fly, a single edge slicing her cheek, and she breathes out heavily. _Falon'Din guide you_. 

“Or... we could do that,” Dorian remarks.

Cullen and Blackwall, dead. Cassandra, Varric and Leliana as good as dead. What about the rest? What about Solas and Josephine? Iron Bull, Sera, Krem? Harritt, who'd helped her craft her first armor and weapons? The two people outside the stables at Haven that she'd hoped would get together through their adorable arguing about horses?

“You're angry. Good.” Leliana nods in approval. She turns to look Maren directly in the eye. “Even if you change things, you need to remember. This _happened_. We fought and we suffered and we died. Make it your reason, make it your mantra, make it your fire. 'In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame'.”

She nods, an understanding and a promise. 

“I will remember.”

  



	6. The Absence of Light

She's never been so happy to see Haven when they finally return from Redcliffe. As usual, her happiness is short-lived. Cullen's so angry that he fairly yells at her for offering the mages a full alliance. Cassandra's disapproval is more reserved, but still evident, even though she expresses support for the decision.

“I stand by my decision,” she tells Cullen, not backing down an inch. “They deserve a chance to prove they can handle freedom.”

Dorian appears a moment later, and she smiles when she sees him. When he tells her he wants to join the Inquisition, she welcomes him with open arms. He'd been all that had gotten her through their trip forward in time, and he'd proven himself not only a capable mage, but a good friend. 

Cullen's anger seems to have completely evaporated by the end of the conversation, and he's pleasant as can be when he invites her to the war room. She jokes about missing her nap, and he responds with “No rest for the wicked.” Given that he looks like he barely sleeps, she's tempted to say he must be exceedingly wicked, then, but after her last awkward attempt at flirting with him by asking him about Templar vows, she decides it's probably better to keep quiet. At least while they have an audience.

She does take a nap, though, exhausted as she falls into bed. Her sleep proves fitful, filled with images of Varric's lifeless body being thrown carelessly to the floor, Leliana being gutted by a demon, and she wakes, sheathed in sweat and shaking.

Sleep can wait, she decides. She's got work to do if she doesn't want to the world to turn out like that dark future.

*

Word of their adventure and everything they'd seen travels quickly among the group, and Varric seems especially interested in all the details, probably for the book he's writing. She'd rather do anything than relive that nightmare word for word, the memory of Varric's red eyes still too fresh. She can't even look at Cullen without seeing his body encased in red lyrium, speak to Leliana without remembering the final expression on her face.

“Maybe after I get a little distance on it,” she tells him, and he lets out a low whistle.

“That bad?”

She nods, not wanting to say anything more about it.

“Tell you what,” he says, “when you're ready, the drinks are on me.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

“Sure thing.”

Finding the missing soldiers in the Fallow Mire sounds like a good way to move forward.

*

The Fallow Mire is a slog. Pelting rain and viscous mud that threatens to suck the boots right off her feet, piles of burning bodies and the endless undead. When she finally faces off against the Avvar chieftan's son, he nearly gets his wish of killing her. She foolishly goes into the fight injured and the first mighty swing of his two handed weapon knocks her flat on the ground, unconscious. Dorian revives her, scolding her for being so careless, and they break apart as another axe swing barely misses him.

Cassandra and Blackwall finally take the massive Avvar down and she rescues the missing soldiers. That and the Grey Warden battlemage armor she took off an apostate are the only good things to come out of the wretched place.

* 

She feels awkward wearing the armor when she tries it on, even though she loves the way it looks. It seems... disrespectful somehow. She walks down to the smithy to consult with Blackwall about it, and he tells her the Warden's would likely be honored that she'd choose to wear it.

She walks along the muddy path toward the gates, admiring the way the metal gleams on her arms, pausing as the sound of soldiers sparring reaches her ears.

She hasn't spoken with Cullen since just after she'd allied with the mages, unsure of his extended feelings on the matter, and she hasn't been in a hurry to find out. But dressed her new armor, fresh from a good night's sleep in a bed, now seems like as good a time as any.

He looks her up and down as she approaches. “Did Blackwall succeed in recruiting you?” he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice.

“No. But he did say he thinks the Warden's would be honored by my wearing it.” She spins in place once to give him the full view.

He nods, looking her up and down again, a slight smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “It suits you.”

“Thank you, Commander.” She pretends to curtsy, fingers holding up the ends of an imaginary dress, and he chuckles.

He eyes her for a moment, as if assessing something, smile lingering on his lips. “You seem to have recovered nicely from your trip through time.”

She wonders if Varric had said something to him about her reluctance to speak of it. She knows they play cards sometimes in the late hours of the night. “Nothing like a week of trekking through a swamp full of undead to put the pep back in your step,” she says, voice breezy and sarcastic.

He chuckles again, pausing before he asks, “Well on your way to forgetting, then?”

She wonders what he knows, why he's so interested—if he had noticed her distress, himself. She sobers, shaking her head. “No. I'll never forget. It was too important to forget. But I'm trying to put it behind me.”

“I understand what you mean.” Something in the tone of his voice tells her truly does, and she wonders what happened to him, if it has to do with whatever happened with the Circle.

“They called you the Last Lion,” she says suddenly, unaware that she'd even been going to speak. But now that she has, it feels like relief. “In that future, I mean. You led the first assault on the demon armies, and you won so many battles in the war that the Elder One himself had to--” she breaks off, realizing what she'd been about to say. “It took the Elder One himself to defeat you,” she says, instead.

He looks at her for a long moment, taking that in. “It's reassuring to know I warranted such special attention.” He makes a motion toward the other side of the tents, inviting her to move their conversation somewhere slightly more private.

She moves in the direction of the pines, feeling grateful and somewhat awkward, but now that she's begun, it's almost as if she can't stop. “The Elder One had Alexius put you on display in the Redcliffe castle courtyard, inside a red lyrium spike, like some kind of trophy.” Her hands tremble with anger at the memory. “I couldn't let that stand.”

He stands, silent and looking at her intently, waiting for her to finish.

“I destroyed it. You... I put you to rest.”

“Maren... are you all right?” he asks, concerned. He reaches out then, gently taking her hand. “You're shaking.”

His gloved hand is warm, so much larger than her own.

“With anger,” she assures him.

He covers the back of her hand with his other hand, her tiny hand disappearing between his. “Anger can be a useful tool,” he tells her, looking directly into her eyes. “Take care to use it as one; don't let _it_ use _you_.”

She wonders again what happened in his past, but she manages to nod once. “'In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame'.”

He blinks once, brows rising in mild surprise. “The Chant of Light? I thought you didn't worship the Maker?”

“I can get behind the sentiment of that particular line,” she tells him.

He gives her a crooked smile and she's suddenly aware of her hand in his, how close they're standing together, looking into each others eyes. A moment passes in silence, and then he seems to realize himself, clearing his throat and releasing her hand. He steps back a pace, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “I, uh....” he casts about for an instant, and then seems to find his place. “Thank you for what you did for me. Future me,” he clarifies.

“Thanks for listening to me, Cullen.”

“Of course. I... thank you for trusting me.”

“Well, now that we're all thanked out...” she says with a grin, and he chuckles in return.

“If you'd like to speak more of this later...”

He lets the invitation hang there, and she nods. “Later.” They can discuss the mage alliance later, as well. “For now, I should let you get back to work.”

“I'm sure you've other matters to attend to.”

As a matter of fact, she does.

She leaves Cullen with a last smile and goes through the gates, walking up the stone stairs until she finds Varric sitting by the campfire outside his tent.

“So, I heard the drinks were on you,” she grins.


	7. In Your Heart Shall Burn

She feels the power of the mages surge through her, tingling on her skin like electricity, heady and exhilarating. Energy pours through her as she lifts her hand to the sky, closing the breach.

The people of Haven celebrate, and she hangs at the edge, watching from above. People dance and drink, and she scans the crowd below, not sighting Cullen anywhere. She feels uneasy in her skin, something not quite right, like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Below, Adan is smiling, actually laughing, and if that's not a sign of the end of the world she doesn't know what is. Cassandra calls this a victory, but she isn't sure. It feels too easy; it's too soon to celebrate.

Her fears are all too well realized as bells ring out against the night, Cullen calling his soldiers to arms.

*

Cole said he was angry at her for stealing his mages, but surely that can't be all there is to it. She doesn't understand why this Elder One wants her, what she has done that would lead to this all out assault on the tiny village of Haven. Minaeve and Adan dead, so many others, the town burning, and all of it in her hands. How had it come to this? 

And then, the look in Cullen's eyes, the way he had softened just the slightest bit when he'd realized what she meant to do; sadness for her sacrifice and yet the tiniest thread of hope for her to cling to in all this craziness. Perhaps she _will_ find a way. She's faced so much else and walked away. But here and now she is ready to sacrifice her own life for the people of Haven. 

She wonders if they will be surprised, that an elf, a "knife-ear" had been willing to die so they could live. Her lips curl in a bitter smile and she shakes her head once. No, they wouldn't be at all surprised. She is their "Herald" after all, sent by Andraste herself to save the world. They had put a name and promise upon her, one she has mocked and abhorred... but the truth is... whatever name they had given her or belief they had put upon her... since the moment she'd first attempted to seal the breach, they had believed her a hero. And now she stands in the midst of the chaos and ruin, finally willing to become one.

They have believed in her for so long... when had she begun to believe they were right?

She watches Cullen leave last, broad back nearly disappearing through the doorway before he hesitates, throwing a glance over his shoulder. There is a sadness written in the lines of his face, in the downturn of his mouth. She wishes for a moment that she could see his eyes, but they are lost among the flickering shadows of the Chantry.

A split second, a shared moment of silent goodbye, and then she nods, turning away. As Cullen was so fond of saying, "to work, then".

She tries not to think about what might have been.

*

He walks with purpose through the flames, silhouette turning solid; face scarred and beset by shards of bloodied metal that protrude at jagged angles from his forehead, his cheek, his jaw. Body emaciated, shrunken skin stretched over bone, and his form resembles nothing so much as a bird, the feathered pauldrons on his shoulders only accentuating the fact. 

She staggers backward as the dragon lands, roaring at her. So many teeth, and it could snap her in half in an instant. Her blood pounds in her veins, every instinct screaming for her to run, primal fear unlike anything she's ever felt. She's never seen anything so dangerous, so enormous.

Cassandra, Varric and Iron Bull are gone and she feels too small, too insignificant to face this alone. 

_This **happened**. We fought and we suffered and we died. Make it your reason, make it your mantra, make it your fire_. Leliana's words echo in memory, and she finds strength in them, steels herself, stands fast. 

“Enough,” the creature decrees, throwing a hand through the air. “Exalt the Elder One. The will that is Corypheus.”

He goes on, and at least now she understands what he wants from her, why he'd come here; the mark. He'd meant it for himself, to assault the very heavens.

She feels her body yank forward, power pulled through the mark on her hand as she falls to her knees, dragon stepping closer, guttural, alien sound emanating from its throat.

“What is this thing meant to do?” she demands through gritted teeth.

“It is meant to bring certainty where there is none. For you, the certainty that I would always come for it.”

He snatches her up from the ground. Her body dangles in the air, Corypheus holding her by one slender wrist, and she can feel the strain in her shoulder, knob of bone that wants to slip from its socket. Brilliant pain like fire through her nerves, muscles stretched too taut, and her heart thunders like a wild stallion in her chest. Her nostrils are filled with the smell of Haven burning, smoke made of blackened flesh and wood, and then Corypheus speaks again, his breath fetid, filled with blood and rot.

Her vision swims and she tries to focus on his words, make sense of them. If she somehow manages to live through this it will be important.

“Beg that I succeed. For I have seen the throne of the Gods, and it was empty.” 

He flings her through the air and she goes flying into the side of the trebuchet. She cries out, shoulders firing pain down her spine as she lands.

“The anchor is permanent. You have spoiled it with your stumbling.”

Permanent. She'd hoped to maybe one day return to her clan, have something like a normal life. She supposes part of her knew that would never be possible, but to have it confirmed...

_Focus._

She struggles from the ground, hands grabbing at a sword. She doesn't need it, not really, staff strapped to her back, but she can't possibly fight him and a dragon by herself. She just needs to keep him focused on her. She holds it up like it could possibly make a difference, like she'd know what to do with it if she had to fight him.

“So be it,” Corypheus intones. “I will begin again, find another way to give this world the nation and god it requires.”

Far off, in the distance, she sees the signal flare rise, fire arcing upward against the night sky. Her lips curve in a tiny, satisfied smile, and if nothing else, at least she knows they made it. The people of Haven are safe. 

“And you,” Corypheus says, eyes fixing on her. “I will not suffer even an unknowing rival. You must die.”

She lifts the sword against him, unsteady on her feet. “You expect me to fight, but that's not why I kept you talking,” she says with a feral grin. “Enjoy your victory. Here's your prize.”

Cullen must have fired the flare. She can imagine his smile as she answers, kicking the release on the trebuchet, boulder flying, smashing into the face of the mountain, snow rocketing down in a massive avalanche. Corypheus is done here. 

Triumph fills her heart as she runs, falling through broken wooden slats into the earth, hoping against hope that she falls just deep enough to survive.

For a moment there is nothing, just the sensation of weightlessness, and then she hits the ground.

 

*

 

She comes to in a cave of some kind, sucking in a deep breath as she struggles to her feet. Icicles drip from the ceiling, wooden constructs on all sides.... An old mining shaft, perhaps? 

She's only just getting her bearings, walking to the end of a wooden walkway when demons appear—despair demons at the forefront, and she knows she'll never be able to kill them alone.

She'd lived through Corypheus and his dragon—it can't end here.

The mark on her palm itches, power welling just beneath the skin, begging to be released, savage energy coiling in her bones. Palm turned upward and out as she unleashes it—green magic disintegrating the demons so quickly she barely has time to blink.

She stares at her hand in shock. She hadn't known—she's never done that kind of damage before. Whatever Corypheus had intended, his tampering with the mark has unleashed something new. Or perhaps it had always been there, within her, only waiting.

She steps past the ashes of the demons, and the cave gives way to a tunnel built of bricks. Had Haven been built on the ruins of a former city? Whatever the case, she doesn't understand why the torches are already lit, waiting for her.

She walks into the unforgiving wind of the Frostback Mountains, throwing an arm up in front of her face to ward off the falling snow.

 

* 

She's freezing, her whole body shuddering as she gasps for breath. Stumbling through the snow, and she'd thought she was lost in the future; it's nothing compared to here. The world stretches out white in every direction as far as she can see, wind whipping her hair and stinging her eyes with snow. Staggering steps uphill, and all she knows is she has to go on, keep fighting.

 

*

They're here somewhere. She can find them. She has to.

She steps forward, then falls back, halting steps through the snow to the remains of a campfire.

“Embers... Recent?”

She's weak, tired and fading and mostly numb. Another step, and she can feel her body beginning to collapse, muscles giving way, knees turning to useless jelly. She barely hears the voice calling out in the distance, hardly feels her knees hit the snow, body listing to one side, then the other, and she feels like she's falling down a deep, deep chasm to meet the ground.

Arms slide beneath her knees and around her back, lifting her lithe body from the snow as if she weighed no more than a feather. Strong arms, cradling and holding her tight, her cheek pressed against snow encrusted fur. Sleep calls to her, pulling her down in a lazy spiral, but her eyelids flutter and she struggles, straining to stay awake. She _has_ to stay awake, keep fighting--

"It's all right. I have you." Cullen's voice, low and deep. Strength and steel, warmth and comfort in his words. "You're safe now." 

Sleep twines around her, insistent tendrils of blackness pulling her into their embrace. This time, she lets them take her.


	8. Arrival

She wakes to the sound of voices arguing--the same voices that had been arguing the last several times she'd woken—and sighs, sitting up.

She likes Mother Giselle, despite the fact that she insists on calling her the Herald even though she knows Maren hates it. She's always meant well, and her views on mages are refreshing, given what she knows about the general Chantry stance. She knows Mother Giselle is trying to offer her comfort right now, but they've suffered a massive blow. Haven is destroyed, Cullen, Josephine and Leliana can't seem to agree on anything, they're stranded in the middle of the Frostbacks, and then there are the things Corypheus had said. The Inquisition is in danger of falling apart right here, right now if something isn't done.

She's tired, worn out from the events of the night, and she doesn't have the faith Mother Giselle does to sustain her. She rises from the bed, feeling defeated, taking in the way everyone has retreated within themselves, not even speaking to each other anymore. The tense silence is even more disturbing than their arguing, everything hanging by a slender thread--

And then a voice rises to fill the silence. 

_Shadows fall_  
_And hope has fled_  
_Steel your heart_  
_The dawn will come._

Mother Giselle walks up beside her, and then another voice joins her on the second verse, Leliana's soprano beautiful and clear as a bell, other voices rising to join. Cullen's voice is as beautiful as Leliana's, strong and powerful and then the whole camp is singing. They surround her as they sing on, and she marvels at the unity in them. They needed hope, needed something to pull them back together, and this is exactly that. It takes her a second longer to realize they're singing _for her_ , fingertips rising to touch her lips, world blurring as her eyes well with emotion.

After the song ends, Solas pulls her aside, lighting a veilfire torch. He calls her lethallin—blood kin--stunning her for the second time since she woke up. He tells her the orb that Corypheus used was elven in origin, a foci. She understands his concern about people finding out it's elven magic, but if they die here, it won't really matter.

As it turns out, Solas has a solution for that.

 

*

She leads them north through the mountains, following Solas' direction, and she can scarcely believe her eyes when she sets them on Skyhold. 

 

*

The barrage of shocks continues when Cassandra tells her they want her to lead the Inquisition. She has to ask Cassandra if she's gone mad—the people expect the Herald, a holy figure, which she most certainly is not. But she, it seems, is what the people want. If it falls to her, then she will do this on her own terms, in her own way. Not chosen, but choosing.

She takes the sword from Leliana, staring at it for a long a moment before she declares,“Our concern must be the order and safety of this world. Not the next.”

Cullen leads the crowd into cheering, and she meets his eyes when he steps back, folding his arms and giving her a proud smile. They don't spend long on celebration, hitting the ground running as they sort out what she learned from Corypheus.

Varric seems to think there's someone she should meet with who knows about Corypheus. Creators know she could use another ally.

 

*

The Champion of Kirkwall's presence is a surprise. He's also surprisingly handsome. Sure, Varric had described him that way in the books--the chiseled jaw, the day old stubble, the piercing green eyes and full mouth, even the unlikely scattering of freckles Anders had apparently once compared to constellations--but she'd always thought that was Varric trying to make the character more physically attractive than Hawke actually was for the sake of the story. As it turns out, Varric hadn't quite done him justice. 

"So. The Champion of Kirkwall. It feels a bit surreal, meeting you."

He gives her a roguish grin. “Someday I'm sure I'll be saying the same of you. The Inquisitor; I knew her when.”

“I don't know,” she remarks, grinning back. “I don't use an Arishok's skull as a gravy boat.”

“That rumor's still going around?” he asks, brows rising. “That would be completely impractical.” He makes the idea sound preposterous, and then adds, “Besides, it's just the jaw bone.”

She laughs, feeling immediately comfortable with him.

“Varric, you neglected to tell me how lovely the Inquisitor is. Remind me to chastise you later.”

“I'll make a note of it,” Varric replies, wry.

“Thank you. You're even more handsome than Varric described you,” she replies, returning the compliment, and she swears she can hear Varric's eyes roll.

“Hawke, I thought you might be able to help the Inquisitor with this Corypheus situation. We did fight him, after all.”

Hawke turns more serious, setting his elbows down on the edge of the battlements and staring at the courtyard below. “You already dropped half a mountain on him. If that didn't work I'm not sure what I can tell you that'll be helpful.”

“Don't sell yourself short. You did kill a high dragon.”

“True enough. That jaw bone was too big to use as a gravy boat, unfortunately. But I don't see how that's helpful, unless you have a high dragon stashed away somewhere?”

“Not that I know of. There's still a lot of Skyhold I haven't explored yet, though.”

Hawke talks a bit about Corypheus, gesturing at Varric as he mentions him, and she glances over.

She has no idea why Varric is chugging wine straight out of a bottle in the middle of the day on the battlements. Maybe it's an ingrained reaction to Hawke's presence after all the years he spent hanging out in a tavern drinking with Hawke and their friends.

After their initial discussion about Corypheus and red Templars, Varric leaves them alone 

She asks more personal questions than she should, and she'd wonder at how exposed the book about him must make him feel, save for the way he answers her so honestly. The way Hawke speaks of Anders is both sad and sweet, and it's clear that he loves him. 

“What about you?” he asks. “Any possessed mage boyfriends blowing up Chantry's in your life?”

He'd been honest enough with her about his personal life. “There's... someone. But either I've gotten very bad at flirting or he's completely oblivious.”

“He's oblivious,” Hawke assures her. 

“Here's hoping.” She tilts her head toward her shoulder.

“If he has a brain in his head, he'll come around.”

She lifts her face, chin jutting out, smirking at him. “Flatterer.”

“It's what I do,” he says with a tilt of his head, smiling. “Didn't Varric tell you?”

“I read the book,” she says by way of comparison.

“Close enough.” Hawke shrugs, green eyes fixing on hers. “But even if that weren't true, you're a remarkable woman, Inquisitor.”

She huffs out a laugh. “You'd say that to anyone you liked.”

“But not as sincerely,” he contradicts with a grin.

Hawke looks at her hand then, nodding in the direction of it. “May I see it?”

“The anchor?” She lifts her hand, green light unfurling from her fingers. He steps closer, reaching as if to take her hand and then pauses, eyes tacitly asking permission. She nods, and he cups the back of her hand, other hand hovering over the mark. She can feel him reach out with his magic for her own, strangely intimate as the two merge.

Human and elven; has it ever happened? She's sure it has. It must have. Feels him tap into her, the two of them connected by the power of the Fade.

“I've been to the Fade,” he says. “This... your mark. It feels different. Older, I think?” He asks tilting his head to one side. “Elven?” he tries again. “Or maybe that's just you.”

She chuckles, and he draws his magic away, backing up a step. 

“It's unlike anything else,” Hawke asserts. “More _powerful_ than anything I've encountered.”

“How could its magic be older than the Fade?” she asks, puzzled. as she turns her palm back and forth. “Isn't the Fade as old as everything else?”

Hawke lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “If you believe in the Maker it's older than _anything_ else.”

Of course. How many times had she heard the Chant of Light in the Haven Chantry? From the Fade they were made, and to the Fade they will return.

But she is an elf, a believer in elven gods. “Strange.”

“It's a mystery,” he agrees. “I always did have a weakness for mysterious women,” he adds with a wink at her.

They banter back and forth a bit more and then she takes her leave, agreeing to meet with him and his Warden friend in Crestwood.

 

*

“You know he's got a boyfriend, right?” Varric asks when she meets him on the damaged stairs.

“Where's the harm in a little flirting? He didn't seem to mind.”

“I once witnessed Hawke flirt with a _corpse_ \--he's not very particular that way.”

“So what's the problem? All in good fun,”' she goes on, clasping her hands behind her back as they walk. “Besides it's not like I'm getting any other action around here,” she mutters.

“Oh really?” Varric perks up, sounding way too interested. “I thought you and Chuckles had that whole slow burn thing going on.”

“Solas?” She frowns, confused. “Why would you think that?”

“I've seen the way he looks at you sometimes.”

Her frown deepens as she considers that. “I hadn't noticed.”

“Oh ho, distracted by someone else, are you?”

Damn him. “No,” she replies, flustered.

Varric laughs.“You've got a hell of a card face, but direct questions? Not really your thing.”

“Kindly fuck off, Varric,” she invites him, cordial.

He ignores her completely, ticking off options on his fingers as he runs through them. 

“Well it's not Iron Bull, or you'd already be getting action. And it's not Sera, because of the whole elf thing. Hmm... Josephine's too ruffly for your tastes, and Dorian's your buddy. So who, then? Blackwall, maybe? The gruff heroic mountain man and his beard catch your eye?”

He's getting too close to the truth for her liking. “Blackwall is a good man, thoughtful and--”

“And you are so not interested,” Varric cuts her off, seeing right through her. “So who does that leave? Leliana is taken, Cassandra doesn't play for your team, Vivienne wouldn't touch any of us with a ten foot pole...” He stops walking, staring up at her. “Curly? Really?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “How do you know it isn't you?”

Varric throws back his head, laughing. “It _is_ Curly, isn't it? Talk about slow burn. You might have to actually set yourself on fire before he'd make a move.” 

Unfortunately, she's forced to agree.

“So help me, Varric, if you breathe a word--”

“Maybe just a tiny whisper?” he offers. “Couldn't hurt to give the poor guy a clue.”

“Not. A. Word.” She emphasizes each word with a poke to Varric's chest, poking him one more time for good measure. “Or the only thing getting set on fire'll be your chest hair.”

“Okay, okay,” Varric says, holding up his hands and backing up a step. “Calm down. I was just trying to help.”

She straightens, smoothing her shirt, and Varric turns, heading off in the direction of the Hall. She'd go with him, but she still needs to see what Bull had wanted to show her, and he's only about twenty paces away. “I need to talk to Bull.”

“See you later,” Varric calls, waving over his shoulder.

“...Mrs. Rutherford,” he adds, when he's far out of her reach. 

Asshole.


	9. Slowly Finding Home

She wants to check in on everyone and make sure they're well, but it takes her a while to locate and talk to them. Vivienne seems to think she needs reminding that they'd been struck a serious blow in Haven, and angry as she is about everything that happened, Maren almost tells her to fuck off. Blackwall seems to take Corypheus coming after her very personally and then she has to explain to him that she's really not the Herald. Sera's freaked out by the implications of Corpheus' existence and Maren has to talk her down. She has to stop Cassandra from trying to beat the shit out of Varric because he'd lied to her about Hawke, then reassure Cassandra, then reassure Varric. She debates with Solas, Cassandra and Vivienne about Cole and then makes the unilateral decision to invite Cole to join the Inquisition, much to the unhappiness of Cassandra and Vivienne. 

By the time she talks to Cullen, she feels as exhausted as he looks. He snaps an order at a messenger as she approaches, then takes a report from another. He's still leaning over the table looking at it as he begins to tell her how the defenses are already being built up in Skyhold.

“Do you ever sleep?” she asks, truly wondering.

He ignores the question and starts talking about how morale is much improved since she accepted the position of Inquisitor.

“Inquisitor Lavellan. It sounds strange, doesn't it?”

“Not at all,” he tells her.

“Is that the official response?”

He laughs then, drawing up to his full height to regard her. “I suppose it is. But it's the truth. We needed a leader, and you have proven yourself.”

It's not a position she'd ever wanted, but he sounds so pleased as he praises her, so certain, with just a touch of pride, that she can't help but smile.

“Thank you, Cullen.”

He gives her one of his crooked smiles, mouth tugging to one side, sunlight highlighting the line of the scar on his upper lip. She wonders for a moment how he'd gotten it, grateful for the chance that she might get to find out one day.

She glances away, then down at the ground as she begins to speak, uncertain how exactly to express what she feels. What is it about him that makes her feel so awkward? She's always been an incorrigible flirt and she's never had a problem making her desires known, before. But he... he's sent her head spinning from the first moment they'd met.

“Our escape at Haven... it was close,” she says, looking up at him again. “I'm relieved that you--” she glances away again, mentally kicking herself for being so obvious, “that so many made it out.”

“As am I,” he tells her, sincere as he looks back and forth between her eyes. He looks away then, over and down at the ground and goes quiet. 

He's silent for so long that she begins to feel awkward still standing there. She can't think of anything else to say and she's so frustrated by the situation and annoyed with herself that she starts to turn away, rolling her eyes with the motion.

“You stayed behind,” he says. “You could have--”

She turns to face him again and he steps forward meet her, looking directly into her eyes as he goes on.

“I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again,” he tells her, the words heartfelt. “You have my word.”

He returns to his work then, leaving her standing there, blinking and confused.

 _You could have died_. Surely that's what he'd been about to say. He'd sounded so upset by the idea, he hadn't even been able to bring himself to say it. She'd be tempted to think he'd been upset by the prospect of the Inquisition losing it's leader if not for that. If not for the way he'd looked her in the eye and nearly promised to never let her come that close to death again.

She isn't sure what it means as she climbs the steps to the other side of the courtyard. That he cares for her in some way seems clear, but perhaps it's as she cares for Dorian—a close friend and nothing more. Still, the way he had looked at her...

She presses a hand to her forehead, pausing before the second set of stairs leading to the Hall. She needs to rest. It's been a long journey and what feels like an even longer day.

She can check in on Dorian and Solas tomorrow.

 

*

They mourn their dead, and Leliana seems to take it the hardest of all, thinks, in fact, that she deserves blame for the deaths. Maren isn't sure why so many people seem to require her reassurance, but she's willing to give it in this case. They could have lost Leliana's people _and_ Haven.

After that, there doesn't seem to be much else to do but move forward.

Hawke hasn't contacted her with a location in Crestwood, yet. And there are a lot of missions on the war table waiting for her. The Exalted Plains are known, and seem like as good a place as any to begin.

*

She makes her foray into the Exalted Plains with Cassandra, Blackwall and Varric, finding the landscape greatly changed from what she'd been told. The Orlesian war has left it blasted, grass struggling to cling to scorched, dusty earth. She'd been told that its wilderness had grown to be beautiful again after the Exalted March upon the Dales. Now it lacks even that.

Still, she can't quite squash the satisfaction she feels at seeing the noble houses burning on the plains. The tales of fancy houses built on the backs and blood of her people had always grated on her. To see them laid as low as the elves had been fans a spark of wicked glee within her heart. 

The spark in her heart dies as she's bent over a list, a blood soaked teddy bear in one hand as she reads about the things a family had packed to keep their children happy and quiet while they escaped war. This stuffed toy had been beloved of one of the corpses scattered around them. Probably the tiniest one. She swallows hard and kneels down by the rotting, twisted body, teddy bear pressed against its--her--chest. Flame flying from her hand, stepping upward and back as she burns the entire family. Human nobles they might have been, but they'd had no elven slaves by all evidence. Just fear, hope and love. So many ages since the defeat of her people here, and these people had nothing to do with any of it. Killed by their own kind in a senseless battle for the crown.

Burning houses are one thing; innocent families killed for no other reason than existing are another.

No one deserved to die like this.

Their fate is beyond her, but perhaps she can give them rest, ask Falon'Din to guide them. 

She does the best she can.

If she had felt glee earlier, she feels only sadness and remorse now. 

*

Skyhold is strange comfort, everything about the Inquisition still alien to her beyond trying to restore order to the world. But this place--stronghold of the Inquisition though it may be--feels like safety. Something bigger than the Inquisition, though it's undeniably a part of it now.

She takes her time walking through the halls of Skyhold, admiring the majesty of it and wondering at its secrets. Beautiful stonework built to last ages, formidable towers rising against the light blue sky, its courtyard and garden filled with trees, the red and gold of leaves against the backdrop of evergreen, vines clinging to its outer walls in shades of crimson and green, and it is beyond beautiful. More, it has room to house an army and the kitchens to feed it, an armory to outfit it and a tavern for it to relax. Stables for the horses, a treasury for gold, and a forgotten, ancient library filled with books that she spends hours poring over. 

It seems to have everything the Inquisition could have hoped for or imagined, and then some. She lets her fingertips trail against the stone walls as she walks, sensing the magic buried deep within the castles bones. There is a sense of belonging here, as if the spirits of the ancient elves who built this place still linger, welcoming a descendant of their kind.

She is given pause when she opens the door within the prison, confronted by open air. There is a gigantic hole torn here, an open wound in the bricks so large she can't imagine what could have caused it. Gatsi left a note posted here, and he seems to have some insight, but even he can only imagine the force of a flood within a dam causing so much damage—doesn't want to imagine what could have caused it here. 

She wonders how long ago it happened, and why. She can imagine a great beast attacking the castle, perhaps a dragon, but why would attack here, in the prisons? She watches water spill from the opening below the castle, cascading in a waterfall, mists rising up to caress and cool her skin, and wonders if she will ever know the truth of this place. 

Perhaps it doesn't matter. It is home, now, and that is enough.

 

*

She never did talk to Dorian, or Solas.

She finds Solas in the rotunda, gazing upon the murals he's already painted, and walks past him, up the stairs to find Dorian within the library. He has a lot to say about pretty much everything, as open to her questions as Hawke had been.

She descends the stairs to find Mother Giselle, a clandestine meeting for Dorian waiting.

*

She would never lie to him, takes him to Redcliffe armed with all the knowledge he needs. He enjoys the company of men, and she can't imagine why this would be a problem. Among the Dalish, they love whomever. 

She understands that blood magic was used, once, to try and change him, but his father seems so apologetic, she can't just leave. Tells Dorian he needs to talk to his father.

She leaves him to do so.

*

Their ensuing conversation finds Dorian uncertain, but happier than he had been. She could accuse him of leading her on, with all the flirting they've done, but she doesn't. She thinks he's brave, and says so.

The look Dorian gives her would make her heart stutter if she cared about him in a different way than she does.

*

She hasn't even left the library when voices rise, echoing around her, Mother Giselle persecuting Dorian.

Fierce protectiveness rises up inside her, lash of anger shooting through her. Even if she tried, she wouldn't be able to explain what Dorian means to her, how as far as she's concerned, they're forever bound by something deeper than friendship because of what they shared in Redcliffe Castle. 

She might not be able to express what he means to her, but she has other ways of making her point. “Mother Giselle. Are you aware of the history between my people and Tevinter?”

“I... yes.” She looks noticeably discomfited, and even Dorian shoots Maren an uncomfortable sidelong look.

“So you're aware that we were enslaved by the Tevinter Imperium for centuries? That we only won our freedom when the elf Shartan led us to fight alongside Andraste? That many of us died in that battle and many more of us died on The Long Walk to find the Dales?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Dalish. I have at least _double_ the reasons anyone here has to hate or mistrust him because he's from Tevinter. Do you think for one second he'd still be here if I thought he had a _single_ duplicitous bone in his body?” Her voice is rising, growing more strident, and she makes a concerted effort to reign it in. She folds her arms over her chest and goes on in a lower, if not less angry tone, “He is my friend, and I won't have his actions be treated as suspect.”

“I... see. I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor.”

Mother Giselle excuses herself with a bow of her head, and she turns to see Dorian looking at her full on with curiosity.

“That was quite the glowing declaration. Are you sure you should trust me so implicitly?”

“We're way past 'should' on a lot of things around here,” she comments, sarcastic. “But yes. I am.”

The smile he gives her is soft and sweet, filled with pleased surprise.

“She didn't get to you did, she?” she asks.

“No. It takes more to get to me than thinly veiled accusations.”

He asks if _she's_ upset of all things, and she is, she tells him, but only on his behalf. 

He smiles again, and no one could think this man had some sort of hidden agenda if they could see the open, honestly touched expression on his face right now. “Perhaps it's odd to say, but I think of you as a friend as well, Inquisitor. I have precious few friends. I didn't think to find one here. Allow me to say I'll stand beside you, against Corypheus, my countrymen or spurious rumor. So long as you'll have me.”

“Speaking of glowing declarations...” she smiles.

“Yes, well, don't get used to it,” he says, pretending disdain. “I've just used up my quota for the year.”

She laughs and leaves him to the bookshelves.

  



	10. There in Falls Doubt, Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Ser Barris deserved better. Also, more Cullen.

When she walks into Cullen's new office, she's immediately struck by the enormous desk off to one side, thinking it might even be big enough to hold all his work. There are a few bookshelves, stacks of books and candles, and not much else. None of the style of Josephine's sitting area by the fireplace or the reclusive feel of Leliana's space high in the Rookery. This is to the point and all about function, which seems to fit.

Cullen stands behind the desk, talking to a man on the other side. He's a dark skinned man with light green eyes, dressed in Templar armor, and he seems... vaguely familiar?

“Inquisitor,” Cullen says, as they both turn to face her. “I've found where the red Templars come from; Therinfal Redoubt.” He gestures to the young man standing there. “This is Ser Barris. He discovered that the Knight-Captains at Therinfal Redoubt were taking Red Lyrium.”

“The Knights-- _we_ \--were next,” Ser Barris says. “When I saw how it was transforming the Knight-Captains...” His expression finishes the sentence just as well as if he'd spoken. “Some of my brothers left the Order with me. The rest were surely corrupted.”

“Unfortunately, I believe you're right,” she replies. “I fought too many of them for them to all be Knight-Captains.”

He takes a step forward, looking apologetic. “Herald—Inquisitor. We would have been at Haven to aid against Knight-Captain Denham and the others, but travel was difficult. We arrived too late.” 

There is nothing but sincerity in his words, and she nods, understanding.

“We would now devote our service to the Inquisition,” he declares, looking her directly in the eye.

She remembers him now; the Templar in Val Royeaux who hadn't agreed with the Templar treatment of the Chantry Mother, who had questioned the Lord Seeker about the possibility that Maren really was sent by Andraste. 

Very well. “Tell me, then, Ser Barris, have any of you have taken red lyrium?”

“Not one among us,” he assures.

And why she should take him at his word is questionable, given what she's fought against—given what she's seen of the Templars. But she believes him. Sees none of the signs that in hindsight had been telltale in Val Royeaux; sickly pale skin and red-veined, puffy eyes. His eyes are crystal clear, emerald green and burning with certainty.

“You know we have allied with the mages as free agents?”

“We know.”

“And you would still join us? Why?”

“Because the world is wrong. Our Order is consumed by corruption. What we have become is not what we were meant to be. The Inquisition offers a chance to become part of something good, again.”

“Then you understand that here, you will be protectors, not persecutors or jailers.”

“As we were always meant to be,” he nods. “That is how we wish to serve.”

He's so certain, bedrock in his voice, and she finds herself impressed by his answer. 

“Then the Inquisition receives you, proudly, Ser Barris,” she responds. 

Ser Barris leans forward in a half-bow, eyes never leaving hers, fist slowly rising to thump against his heart, respect expressed in every movement

She mirrors the movement, hand rising to form a fist against her heart in return.

She is going to hear so much shit for this later.

 

*

Ser Barris leaves to deliver the news to his brothers, and she stays with Cullen for a time afterward. He has quite a bit to say about Samson taking over the red Templars at Therinfal Redoubt, all of it angry and disgusted.

“The red Templars still require lyrium. If we can find their source we can weaken them and their leader.”

“Are you angrier at Corypheus or Samson?”

“I don't know. Samson, at least, should know better.”

He tells her that she can find caravans being smuggled along the trade routes, and marks several spots on her map of the Emerald Graves as likely locations. When she asks about their personal history, he tells her of how he knew Samson in Kirkwall, and it's clear he has no sympathy for the man, despite Samson's sad tale. Neither does she, for that matter. But it does bother her to see how much this seems to bother him.

“I'll make this a priority, Cullen.”

“It will serve the Inquisition well to cut off the red Templars lyrium supply.”

“Yes, it will serve the Inquisition well, as well,” she says with gentle, meaningful emphasis on the last two words.  
.  
He looks at her, surprised for an instant, and then he looks down at his desk, setting his hands on it and leaning forward. “I suppose it is... difficult for me to see what the order has become.”

“Do you still feel tied to it?”

“No. But there was a reason I joined, once.” He rises to his full height and turns, leaning a shoulder against the brick next to one of the arrow slits that serve as his office windows. Sunlight falls through it, illuminating his features in stark light and shadow as he stares out at the mountains in the distance. “When I left the order... I knew it was no longer what it had once been. Much of my anger falls on the Chantry for that. But to see it brought so low by someone who used to be one of their own... To know the red Templars were innocent, betrayed and used by him...” he shakes his head in disgust.

“Perhaps that was what drew Samson to Corypheus' service? A chance to get revenge on the order?”

“Perhaps,” he allows. “If it was, I fear he's succeeded.”

She takes a step closer the outside edge of the desk.“This isn't over. _We're_ going to stop Samson. _We_ already had a number of Templars with us. Ser Barris and his fellow Knights escaped the red lyrium infection and joined _us_. It's up to _us_ if we want to make something good from it all.”

He is silent, head bowed in thought.

“Yes,” he agrees after a moment. “If any good _can_ come from this, it's in our hands.” 

He takes a breath and exhales, seeming to let the issue go for the moment, then pushes off the wall with his shoulder, turning away from the arrow slit to face her. “And Ser Barris seems like a fine Knight. I'm glad you accepted them into the Inquisition.”

“I'm glad you approve,” she says with a small smile.

He smiles slightly in return, corner of his mouth tugging upward.

“Alas,” she goes on, “I doubt most of my companions will share your feelings.”

“Taking in more Templars may upset some of them, I suppose.” He sounds so reasonable about it.

“Worse. I'm taking in potential _red_ Templars.”

His brows draw together in a concerned frown. “You don't think...”

“No. I believe him. But then, I've met him and looked him in the eye. They don't always get to see what I see—even when they _do_ , they don't always see the _same_ thing. Sometimes it's like they weren't in the same room I was in. Sometimes it's like they weren't even in the same _country_.”

“I imagine it must be interesting at times, leading such a colorful group.” There's a knowing, amused note in his voice.

She huffs out a laugh, eyes rolling upward. “You don't know the half of it.” 

“And am likely better off for it,” he agrees, chuckling.

“At least there's always you,” she says in a breezy, lighthearted tone. “You never give me grief.” She hesitates for a second, remembering. “Well, except for when I offered the mages a full alliance.”

“It seemed a rash decision,” he says, as if it should be obvious. “And I still believe mages need protection.” He goes on after a moment, “But, the mages did their part well in closing the breach, and it's worked so far.”

She keeps her tone light as she adds up the plus column. “And no one's been possessed, started using blood magic, or blown anything up.”

“Or turned into a lyrium statue,” he agrees, with that whimsical, dry sarcasm he wields so well.

“Some days it's the little things,” she smiles, shrugging.

 

*

There are six messengers piled up outside Cullen's door when she opens it, and she's surprised they hadn't started beating down the door earlier, anxious as they look.

She can hear Cullen giving orders before she's even halfway down the stairs.

 

*

She wants to leave for the Emerald Graves at first light tomorrow, has already told Blackwall, Cole and Iron Bull, and is in the middle of packing supplies for the journey when Josephine knocks on her door.

“I thought you were done torturing me with knowledge about nobles for the week?” she sighs, vaguely sorry she'd ever decided to learn about them in the first place. So many things to understand, and all of them completely foreign to her.

“Education isn't torture, Inquisitor,” Josephine rebuffs her gently as she steps into the room. “But that's not why I'm here. You do recall our discussion about it being time for you to learn a new school of magic?”

She searches her memory for a moment. “Somewhere in the middle of endless nobility education sessions, nearly dying several times in the Exalted Plains and back to back war table meetings... I seem to recall something about that? Possibly? Maybe...?” 

Josephine ignores her sarcasm. “I made the necessary arrangements. They're here.”

“They who?”

*

Her trainers arrive, filing into the courtyard at Josephine's behest. This isn't her main priority right now, but Josephine went to all the trouble to bring them here and it would probably be unforgivable to ignore them.

She is drawn to Helaine first, but comes away disappointed, finding only another elf who is not an elf; a flat ear too proud of their human station. Mingling with the dead holds no appeal for her at all. She adores Dorian, but like Cassandra, she's always found necromancy to be rather morbid.

The woman who identifies herself only as, “Your Trainer” seems rather addled by the rift magic she has studied, and the fact that she is the only one to survive the study makes Maren hesitate. Still, it's rift magic, tied to the Fade and the tears in the Veil, which seems intrinsically tied to her. It seems wise to learn whatever she can about the power she wields, and furthering her study into it seems a natural choice.

Night falls over Skyhold, pale, full moons beginning to climb the clear and cloudless starry skies above the mountains. She enters the Hall to find Solas, finding him in the warm light of the rotunda, thumb and forefinger clasped around the long point of his chin as he contemplates a bare section of the wall. She hasn't spoken with him since they arrived here, and it seems rude to disturb him, so she slides into the chair at his desk, watching him watch the wall until he finally turns, noticing her.

“Inquisitor. Forgive me, I did not hear you enter.”

Inquisitor? Not lethallin or lethallan? “You seemed deep in thought. I didn't want to disturb you.”

“I was considering how to best represent your adventure in Redcliffe.” He rubs the fingertips of his left hand together and she can see spots of black pigment on his skin.

“Just... no red lyrium. I'm as sick as Varric is of seeing it.”

“Ma nuvenin,” he says with an incline of his head. “Was there something else you needed?”

He leans, half-sitting on the edge of the desk, expression intent as she explains her consideration of becoming a rift mage. He interrupts a few times with questions, but by the time she finishes expressing her concerns, he seems comfortable enough with the idea.

“If this woman has managed to learn how to manipulate rift magic so quickly then it should be no trouble for you, given how connected you are to it already. I use similar magic, but it took me years of studying in the Fade.”

“So you don't think I'll start referring to myself as 'Your Inquisitor'?”

He gives a low laugh and shakes his head. “No. Your mark should act as a catalyst for the energy, and you already control that with precision. And as I've said before, you have an indomitable will.”

She narrows her eyes at him, playfully speculating, “Why do I feel like that's a polite way of calling me 'a stubborn ass'?”

He laughs, full-throated, this time. 

“Perhaps you are at times,” he agrees, tilting his head in a nod, still amused. “But, I do not always see that as a bad thing.”

He's endearing, when he's open like this. She understands. Solas has invoked her ire and her admiration, sometimes both, with his own stubbornness, depending on the situation. 

“I feel the same,” she replies, the words hanging between them for a long moment.

“I was wondering,” she says when the silence stretches too long. “She gave me this list of items for the ritual to study rift magic. I have the ring velvet, but I need three Venatori tomes, and I haven't found any in my travels. I have no idea where to look for them.”

“Venatori tomes?” Solas asks, thoughtful. “You put Alexius to work for the Inquisition, did you not? He may have an idea of where to look for them.”

She shakes her head, not in dissent, but in appreciation. “That's an excellent idea. Thank you, Solas.”

 

*

Alexius is a broken man, a shadow of his former self as he leans across the table, pointing to spots on the map. Fingers long and bony, nails ragged, chewed to the quick, face a pale sliver of moon within the darkness of his hood.

She'd spared him only for Dorian's sake after seeing that bleak future, fury running through her veins and every instinct telling her to kill him. But now, she feels something like sadness for him. He'd been broken even then, had been willing to give them whatever they wanted after what happened to Felix. Nothing else had mattered then, and nothing else seems to matter now.

Perhaps it would have been kinder to kill him.

And then she remembers Leliana's sunken, skeletal body filled with fury, Cullen's bones sealed in a red pillar, Varric and Cassandra's red eyes.

He'd let that happen, _made_ it happen. He hadn't found a greater purpose in Felix's fate, he'd just... given up. 

And that's exactly what he's done here. Going through the motions, doing what he's told.

Dorian might not agree, but killing him would have been kinder. She's glad she didn't.

Letting him suffer and serve was the best decision.

 

*

He marks off several places in the Exalted Plains and she sighs audibly.

The Exalted Plains.

Well, at least Dorian will be excited to kill some Venatori.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma nuvenin = As you wish.


	11. Beacon

The first two Venatori camp locations turn out be nonexistent, remains of campfire and footprints left behind, and she's ready to wring Alexius' neck. It's Dorian's voice that stays her, despite the fact that they're down to their last health potion after their accidental foray into the eastern ramparts. That final Arcane Horror had almost killed her _twice_ , and she's sure Alexius knew where he was sending her.

They fight a pack of wolves that nearly lays them low on the way to make camp, but they make it. Barely.

The next day and next two locations bear the tomes, but the third...

The third and final one lies behind a pile of fallen stone blocking an ancient archway. It's built into natural stone that she can't find a way through, no matter how she tries. Which begs the question of how the Venatori got in there. _If_ they're even there.

Frustrated, she finally plants a flag in front of the archway, marking it for an Inquisition operation. She barely takes in her surroundings, already mounting her red hart for the journey back to Skyhold.

*

At the war table, Cullen assures her that his men will get the archway opened, though it will take some work.

*

She feels like she's been neglecting Solas. Yes, she'd gone to him to ask about rift magic, but she hasn't asked about _him_ , his feelings on Haven.

Footsteps echoing through the Hall of Skyhold, through the door past Varric, and she finds him standing near a small hallway off to the right.

She asks him to tell her more of his studies, and he expresses his continued surprise in her, suggesting they speak somewhere more interesting than here.

They go to Haven, and something tugs at the back of her mind, the feel of something out of place. They speak in the cells beneath the Chantry, where she'd been held prisoner, and how long could it have taken him to examine a mark on her palm?

He seems to find her answer amusing, chuckling.

They're back outside again, snow falling around them as Solas tells her how he'd decided, one last attempt to seal the rifts, and failed. And then... the memory of Solas grabbing her by the hand, lifting her hand to seal the very first rift she'd ever closed.

There is a moment that passes between them, him, closer to her than perhaps he's ever been, and she wonders if Varric had been right about the way Solas looks at her sometimes. Then she understands; this isn't real.

“That is a matter of debate,” Solas tells her. “Probably best discussed when you... _wake up_.”

*

She wakes in her bed, sitting upright, mind still reeling.

She runs to find Solas, who for his part, seems impressed by the whole matter. Apparently the mark allows her to dream with remarkable focus, so much so that she'd sought him out in the Fade in his own dreams. Another thing that makes her unique, and even he can't do what she'd done.

“So... I could seek out... anyone, in their dreams?”

“If you desired. Though it would be different with others less accustomed to the Fade.”

“Different?”

“Those not used to the Fade only dream lucidly on rare occasions, if ever. They would be less likely to remember. A mage would be more likely to.”

“You were aware we were dreaming. I wasn't.”

“You had no sense of dreaming?” he asks, truly curious.

“I... part of me knew being in Haven wasn't right.” She struggles to find the right words. “Part of me knew Haven had been destroyed and we shouldn't have been there. But it was only a feeling.”

“That is how it begins,” Solas nods. “The sense of _understanding_ where you walk.”

Having this kind of power worries her. “What if I... wander into someone else's dreams? Someone who doesn't understand what's happening, like you do?”

“You would have to exert your will to force yourself into someone's dream who didn't welcome you there. You would never wander into them. Spirits can do so, but that is because they are more fluid. They do not have the mooring of being bound by a mortal body.”

“So being bound by a body means...”

“Means you are subject to all that being part of a mortal body entails. You have feelings that ground you in the real world. Even being lucid in the Fade, you are not free of those things.”

She nods, understanding. “I'm still me. I'd never push my way into someone's dreams if they didn't know and welcome me.”

“Yes.”

Wait. Then that means... “So you welcomed me?”

“Of course.” His low laugh is cordial. “You are unique, Inquisitor. I welcome learning about you.”

She supposes that doesn't surprise her. He does seem fascinated by the mark.

*

Early morning sunlight slants through the clouds behind her as she stands on the southwest battlements of Skyhold, staring out at the mountains. In a moment, she'll go ask Cullen about his soldiers' progression in the Exalted Plains.

She is aware of the soldiers walking past, back and forth behind her, and then someone steps up beside her.

“Cullen,” she greets him, mildly surprised. He looks as gorgeous as ever, if a bit pale in the morning light, his eyes regarding her with curiosity. 

“One of the messengers said you were out here. Is everything all right?”

“Fine.” She nods. “I was coming to see you in a moment, to see how excavation is going.”

“The soldiers from the camps you established there have made good headway. If you set out within the next day it should be finished by the time you get there.”

“Good. Thank you.” She smiles at him and he nods.

“How are things going in the Exalted Plains?” he asks, after a moment.

She huffs out a laugh, resting her elbows on edge of the battlements and turns her head to look at him, letting it loll to one side. “You mean the Exalted Pains in My Ass?”

Cullen's brows rise and then he laughs, that low chuckling sound that he makes. “That well?”

“So many demons and undead,” she sighs, shaking her head. “And they all come straight for me like they're out to get me, personally. Even when I run to the back of the party.” She turns her hands palms up, fingers splayed, exasperated. “I watched rage demons, horrors and two Arcane Horrors completely ignore Iron Bull and Blackwall beating on them to get at me.”

Cullen turns and rests his elbows next to hers, only the space of a couple feet separating them as he leans forward, contemplating. “Perhaps they're drawn to you.”

She shoots him a sidelong look, lips curling in a mischievous smile. “Because of my charm? My good looks, maybe?”

He chuckles, rueful. “I doubt they're discerning enough to notice such things.”

“Why, Commander,” she remarks with playful, feigned surprise. “Are you saying _you've_ noticed?”

“I... um.” Cullen lifts his hand from the stone, palm rising to cup the back of his neck as he glances away. His gloved fingertips rub at the bare skin there, and she wonders if he's even aware he's doing it. “I meant, perhaps they are drawn to the mark. It _is_ connected to the Fade. It may resonate with familiarity, or even call to them.”

“So, you haven't noticed, then?” she teases, grinning. She keeps her tone light, but she can't deny the part of her that's disappointed.

“I, um... that is... you _are_ quite....”

She watches him struggle with the words for a moment longer, grin growing wider, and then she laughs, unable to hold it in any longer.

“Maker's breath,” he mutters. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't be. You're just so cute when you're awkward.” She smiles, reaching out to pat his forearm, hand touching cool metal. It's a gesture of reassurance, given without thought,, but he stops dead when she touches him, his eyes flickering up and focusing on her with rapt attention, mild surprise at her remark and something more reflected in those hazel depths. The air between them seems to crackle, an electric current running between them that sends goosebumps racing across her skin, a shiver running down her spine. The wind that blows in off the mountains is unforgiving in its coldness, but for an instant, she can scarcely feel it, filled with heat.

“Maren...” he whispers.

Her name upon his lips, and she wants to kiss the sound. They're so close, close enough that she can see flecks of gold clinging to the edges of his pupils, tiny points of bright light scattered like stars around darkness.

He clears his throat then, breaking the moment, his eyes sliding away as his upper body inches backward from hers. “I should ah, get back to work.”

She wants to stop him, wants to say something to bring him closer, but she can see the messenger approaching in the background, about to call for his attention, is suddenly aware of the soldier strolling past them.

“Of course.” She manages a smile she hopes doesn't look as fake as it feels. 

“Cullen,” she says, abrupt as a thought strikes her. He pauses in mid-turn to look back at her. 

“I think you might be right.” She lifts her left hand slightly. “About the mark.”

His mouth quirks in a smile. “Have Solas look into it,” he suggests.

*

“Yes. Of course,” Solas replies without hesitation, and she feels like an idiot for being the only one who didn't realize.

“You are a beacon for spirits from the Fade,” Solas goes on.

She regards him with surprise, wondering why he wouldn't have mentioned something so important. “You knew this all along?”

“You did not?” Solas asks, as if he's truly curious, and she guesses that answers her question. He'd assumed she'd already known.

“I... no.” She supposes she really should have thought about it, before.

“Your mark can open and close rifts; that would attract nothing but attention from spirits hovering at the edge of the Veil. But for spirits transported into this world through the rifts, you would shine like fire. An irresistible fire.”

“Because the mark is connected to the Fade,” she says, opening her hand, watching green light dance along the lines of her palm. “Familiar to them, like Cullen said.”

“More than familiar. It is focused power beyond anything I've seen in the Fade. Imagine if the Fade were filled with sunlight. Your mark would be like the sun itself.”

“Great.” She sighs.

*

She stops by Cullen's office later in the day to tell him he was right, and thank him for making the suggestion. Annoying as it is, at least now she knows.

She finds him alone, leaning over his desk, palms flat on the surface. He doesn't look up when she enters, his attention focused on an opened wooden box that sits between his hands.

When he finally meets her gaze, she knows immediately that something is wrong. 

“Inquisitor. Now that you are head of the Inquisition, there is something I must tell you.”

She feels something in her stomach turn over, sending ripples of unease through her. Whatever it is, it sounds serious. “You can tell me anything.”

She's upset when he tells her he stopped taking lyrium months ago, admonishing him for not telling her sooner. Her studies have taught her the effect such an action can have on a Templar, fear and worry overtaking her. “Are you in pain?”

“I can endure it.”

She has no doubt that he can. She admires the decision, and tells him he has her support. If he can break his addiction he'll be better off for it.

After she leaves him, she wonders if that's why he'd backed off earlier today. Overcoming an addiction while running an army would be tough enough without adding romance as a complication. Or perhaps he'd wanted to make sure she had full disclosure before anything could happen between them. 

_Or maybe he's just not interested_ , her internal voice speaks up. 

But the look he had given her, before he'd broken the moment... she was sure she'd seen something of what she feels reflected in his eyes.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine calls out, stopping her on the way to the war room.

She pushes the thought to the back of her mind, turning her full attention to Josephine.

  
  



	12. Disintegration

They travel from the nearest camp on foot to the excavation site, and when they arrive, she sees something she'd barely noticed in her aggravation the first time she'd been here.

A statue of Fen'Harel looms large outside the newly opened entrance in the rock face, filling her heart with unease. There are dozens of such statues all over the plains, she has seen them time again and wondered why there were so many. But those statues seemed to fall in random places, atop mountains or within the forest, leftover relics from the time of the elvhenan, their presence without context. This statue sits directly in front of the entrance as if guarding it, claiming it.

“Has anyone been inside yet?” she asks the soldier standing by the archway. 

“No, Your Worship.”

She stands, biting at her lower lip, weight shifting back and forth between her feet. If the others take notice of her hesitation, they say nothing.

She bids them to wait and climbs up the low side of the large rock the statue sits upon, stopping before the base. She stands in the shadow of the wolf beneath its muzzle, and inside the cloth of her robes, her fingertips curl around the sharp point of a wolf's tooth, pulling it free. It rests in the palm of her hand as she opens her fingers, eyes tracing the ivory contours. She'd meant to give it to Helisma--a creature item to be researched—but she has a better purpose for it now. 

A raven lights upon the statue's hindquarters, sunlight illuminating the green and purple tint of black feathers along its spine. It fixes its beady eyes on her and bobs its head, beak splitting open in a defiant caw, as if daring her to make it move. A tendril of fire sent the interlopers way and it retreats to the air, wings beating against the smoke-tinted gray sky.

It's been a long time since she's done any of her duties as First to the Keeper of her clan. She can feel the weight of the sylvanwood carved ring that hangs suspended between her breasts on a length of slender leather cord. She hasn't worn it on her finger since she joined the Inquisition, clan duties set aside when she dedicated herself to a larger cause. With her free hand, she smooths away the grit of dirt along the edge of the statue's base until it's as clean as she can make it. She places the wolf tooth in the space and draws a symbol around it, her lips moving in a barely audible prayer; an offering and a request that the Dread Wolf might let them pass without harm.

It's a meager offering at best, especially should this have once been a place of worship to Fen'Harel, but it's the best she can do.

She rejoins the party to find Cassandra staring out into the distance of the plains, one hand shielding her eyes from the light. Sera is busy inspecting her bow with such intense focus that Maren suspects she knows this was some sort of elven ritual and wants no part of it. Only Solas looks at her directly, his eyes as inscrutable as ever, but set of his face tells her he seems somehow pleased by her actions. She's puzzled for an instant, and then decides that it makes sense for him to be pleased by her respect of the elven gods. That much, it seems, the Dalish got right.

She walks into the mist pooled at the opening in the rock, watching it break and scatter in a whirlpool pattern around her, and then she steps inside. 

*

Ten minutes later, she's covered in so much Gurgut blood and guts she can barely feel grateful for the statue of a red hart that rises up from the middle of the grove. Later, after their wounds have been tended and camp has been made, she scrapes aside the moss growing up the edges of the statue and finds the words 'Ghilan'nain's Grove' carved into the base, their etching weathered and worn low with time, but still legible.

The red hart, Ghilan'nain's symbol, the mother of the halla, and this is a place of shelter and safety.

*

She finds the third Venatori tome further in, through the archways that lead to a marsh. She takes it from the still frozen body of a Venatori mage, watching it shatter as she pulls the tome free. Solas' work, and she does enjoy their fire and ice combination.

They decide to camp overnight before heading back to her trainer at Skyhold, and they push deeper down the path, through another set of stone arches. An inexplicable giant stone hand lies to the right of a ragged hole in the ground, and she wonders where the rest of the statue is. They descend into the earth, finding an ancient elven puzzle that takes her some time to figure out, pleased when the locked gates finally open. She's less pleased to find the Arcane Horror and undead in the tunnels. The Arcane Horror unleashes green, swirling energy at her and she braces for impact, feeling it rip through her, tearing at her life force. She falls to her knees, crying out, heartbeat beginning to slow, world swimming around her, the flame inside her within an inch of being snuffed out. She screams in rage, violent energy rushing through her and exploding from the palm of her hand.

Green light fills the room, power dancing on the air, the Arcane Horror's head snapping back, arms splayed helplessly at its sides—and then it dissolves, ashes drifting to the floor.

The stone room is dark, silent, save the sound of her labored breathing, and she can feel the eyes of her companions upon her. She's never used the damaging power of the mark in front of anyone before. She'd almost forgotten she could do it. She hasn't used it since that first time at Haven.

“How the frig did you do that?” Sera demands, sounding frightened. “They all just...” she swears she can hear Sera's arm swish through the air, encompassing. “Disappeared. Like you _unmade_ them.”

She reaches for a health potion with a shaking hand and pulls the cork free with her teeth, drinking it down in several long gulps. She can feel her heartbeat beginning to return to normal, internal damage repairing itself, and heaves a shaky breath. “It's something the mark can do. I discovered it after the battle, when I was in the tunnels under Haven.”

“I've never seen such a power,” Solas says from behind her.

She snorts, using her staff for leverage as she pushes to her feet. “You should all be used to me surprising you by now.”

“Are you well, Inquisitor?” Cassandra asks, walking up alongside her.

“I'll live.” She nods.

*

Sera keeps her distance when they return to camp, and she can practically see the questions dancing in Solas' eyes. Only Cassandra doesn't seem phased, a testament to the growing acceptance between them. Ever since they'd made her Inquisitor, Cassandra seems to have put her faith in Maren. But then... Cassandra won't meet her eyes, either.

Darkness encroaches as they build a camp fire, and she crouches down beside the flame, holding her hands out to warm them. Solas sits down near her, legs crossed in the dirt.

“Can you always use the mark like that?” Solas asks, and she can see Sera detach from the shadows, drifting a little closer, listening.

She shakes her head. “It... takes time to build up inside me.” That's the only way she can describe it, doesn't have a better sense of how it works than that.

“It's fascinating,” Solas remarks, sounding, well... fascinated. “I would not have guessed the mark held the power to destroy as well as act as a key.”

“Just another fun, weird talent I seem to possess.” Her tone is wry, strained, and she's tired, drained from nearly dying _again_.

“It's scary, is what it is,” Sera speaks up, querulous. “Turning things to ash with a wave of your hand. Nobody should have power like that.”

She doesn't have the patience for this tonight. She heaves a sigh and then rises to her feet. “I'm going to bed.”

She pulls the tent flap into place behind her and snuggles down in her bedroll. Outside, she can hear Solas trying to explain to Sera that it's simply a different type of magic—which goes over about as well as she expects it to.

She's asleep minutes later.

*

When they return to Skyhold, she retires to her quarters, grateful for the solitude, to be away from Sera's suspicious eyes and Solas' curious ones, and Cassandra who wouldn't look at her at all.

She gathers the items she needs and kneels on the floor, arranging candles in a circle around her, lighting them with a gesture of her hand. She lays out the tomes—three Venatori and one Solas had given her—and the fragments of ring velvet she'd collected from undead in the Exalted Plains, and bows her head, closing her eyes. She focuses her magic, bringing it to a sharp point, then lets it expand, encompassing the ingredients, and casts the spell her trainer had given her. She can feel the items merge, pages collating, the words upon them changing, re-writing themselves into new symbols, ring velvet absorbed into them, consumed.

When she opens her eyes, a single tome sits before her, new and perfectly formed. The cover has a slightly velvety texture when she touches it. She extinguishes the candles and carries it to meet her trainer in the courtyard.

*

They spend several days together with her studying the tome, and by the end, she understands every word and symbol within the book. Understands how to focus her magic and use it as a force on the world around her. In the Undercroft, she purchases an amulet that allows her to rearrange things within her mind, unlearning the spells she knows, all potential spells at her fingertips, understood and waiting for her choosing. Fire has always felt natural to her, rift magic even more so. She picks only fire and rift magic spells, feeling their knowledge take root inside her.

*

She makes her rounds at Skyhold, checking in on everyone. Solas seems to be able to sense that she's changed and started practicing her new magic. Cole seems delighted by the changes her sees in her, the way she glows now. She's entranced by the way he describes how she appears to him. One her way back down the stairs of the tavern, she decides to skip stopping in Sera's room.

When she opens the door to Cullen's office, she stops, momentarily surprised. He's polishing his armor, which isn't at all strange, it's just that she's never seen him without it on. The linen under shirt he's wearing is off-white and it clings to his firmly muscled broad shoulders, collar cut low, revealing the v of his throat. Sunlight falls through the window opposite him, catches on the sweat that beads there, one droplet trickling down to where the line of his pecs begins, teasing before it disappears. His pecs stand out, outlined by the damply clinging shirt, showing off his tight abs, the place where his waist narrows, leaving only skin to the imagination. His musculature is _perfect_ , so perfect an artist might well have carved him from stone.

His biceps ripple and bulge as he works the polishing rag on one of the armored shoulders and she can barely stand it, overwhelmed by the urge to peel the linen from his skin, put her hands all over it, kiss, touch and taste every inch, lick away the sweat trickling down his chest, trail lower to where she can imagine the rest of him--

_Come on, Maren. Pull yourself together. You'd think you'd never seen an attractive man in a tight shirt before._

Of course she has, but it's been a long time. Maybe too long. Even longer since she's wanted to do something about it.

She catches herself staring and clears her throat to get his attention. He glances up, seeming momentarily annoyed at being interrupted before he recognizes her, brows flying upward in surprise.

“Inquisitor. Forgive me.” He starts to rise to his feet, and she holds up a hand.

“As you were, Commander.”

He sits fully in the chair again, though his posture is a bit stiff. “It ah, has to get done sometime.” 

“I understand.” It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him she'd been enjoying the view and then she decides that would probably sound creepy, however true.

There are no other chairs except the one he's sitting in, so she walks to the desk, lifting one leg and half sitting along the front edge. “Please,” she gestures to his armor, “carry on.”

He seems vaguely uncomfortable and uncertain as he rubs the polishing rag between the fingers of one hand. Almost like he doesn't feel like he should be doing this in front of her, like it's disrespectful somehow.

“Don't worry, you're not corrupting me,” she tells him with a smile. “I _have_ seen men polish their armor before.”

The tension in his shoulders eases a bit then, and he gives her a small nod. “Did you need something?” he asks.

“Just checking in. Is there anything I should know?”

He gives her a brief update on morale around Skyhold since the initial repairs were made.

She nods in response, looking thoughtfully at his armor, willing her eyes to stay there and not roam. “I've never seen bear fur with that pattern,” she says, tilting her head at the mane of fur.

“The red is dyed,” he admits, nose wrinkling lightly with distaste. “Josephine insisted. She said my old fur was 'too ratty' for Inquisition appearances.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It's warm enough.”

“And here I was expecting an exciting story,” she teases. “A vicious battle to the death between you and an exotically patterned bear.”

He laughs, sound low and rich, rumbling in his chest. “I haven't seen a bear since before I joined the order. There aren't many bears in Circle towers and city streets.”

“Well, if you need more fur, I think I have about a thousand pelts left over from the Hinterlands.” She rolls her eyes at the memory and he chuckles.

“Was the excavation in the Exalted Plains to your satisfaction?”

She nods, thinking of what had happened later, in the tunnels. “Excellent work, as always,” she speaks the words almost absently.

He looks at her for a long moment. “Are you all right? Did... something happen?”

She considers telling him—for an instant she really does—he's so open and warm, willing to listen, and damn him for being so considerate and sweet on top of being a gorgeous badass.

What would he think of her? When she can walk in other people's dreams and disintegrate monsters with a blast from her hand? He's a former Templar who thinks normal mages still need supervision, and here she is with magic no one's ever seen before.

“Nothing I can't handle,” she says, forcing a smile.

His brows draw together in a light frown, and he's not entirely satisfied by her answer, but he nods, accepting it. “If you'd like to talk about it another time...”

“I know where you are.” She finishes his sentence, her smile genuine this time. 

They speak for a little while longer about details in Skyhold, and then she bids him farewell, rising from the desk and walking to the door.

She'd been the picture of decorum the whole time they'd talked, but she can't resist one last look at him, wanting to take the memory of him in his linen shirt with her into the day.

She throws a glance over her shoulder as she reaches the doorway—and finds his eyes on her instead of his armor. Whatever he'd been looking at, it hadn't been the back of her head, because his eyes snap upward, meeting hers. They lock gazes for a brief instant before Cullen yanks his eyes away, focuses his attention on his armor, and begins to scrub at it with sudden vigor.

Mythal save her—is he _blushing_?

She doesn't stand around staring long enough to tell for sure, making her way down the stone steps outside his office.

He could have been looking at her shoulders, her back, or not at any particular part of her at all, wondering what it was she hadn't wanted to discuss. Still, he'd seemed more embarrassed than he should have been.

Maybe she hadn't been the only one noticing someone's physical assets, after all.

Not that it matters. He's got his own trouble. Coming off lyrium is deadly serious, could leave him unstable, possibly kill him. She's just a whole other category of screwed up; demon and spirit magnet, dream walker, disintegrater of monsters and demons, and a mage, to boot.

He doesn't need her complications. Whatever might be there between them, she should leave it alone.

  
  



	13. Red Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's probably not much she wouldn't do to make him happy.
> 
> Some elfy elf stuff and indirect Cullen. Tons of Cullen coming up next chapter.

The Emerald Graves is the most beautiful place she's ever been. Everything colored in shades of green and yellow except the background of blue sky above, the rich brown earth revealed here and there below. The ancient, crumbling stone arches that remain of the structures once built here rise around them with a sense of history—a mystery whose answer is just out of reach. Nugs skitter past them, their skin colored a surprising, sleek brown, august rams snorting and rushing about, and everything here is vibrant and alive. 

It calls to her as few things have; as lush a forest she has ever seen, teeming with life, tall, ancient trees standing proud over the flower dotted grass, sunlight falling through the leaves in dappled patches of light and shadow. She breathes the scent deep into her lungs, eyes fluttering closed for an instant. Memories of a different place filled with splashes of sunlight and green leaves, bare feet slipping against the rocks of a cold river as she runs, laughter rising to her lips, body lighter and smaller, heart filled with simple joy.

Simple. A word a child would never use because it is implicitly understood. A word only applied later, to the memory of childhood.

She exhales and opens her eyes to the watery sunlight filtering through the tree leaves.

_We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit_

Yet another land filled with reminders of another Exalted March. 

_“I wonder if the elves will ever find a home?”_ , Blackwall had wondered aloud during their time in the Exalted Plains.

As she steps forward, making her way through the gnarled, moss covered roots, she wonders, too.

*

She's supposed to meet with someone named Fairbanks, and she'll get to that eventually. Right now she's here to find those smuggler caravans for Cullen.

They don't quite make it to the first location the first day. She does get to try out her new spells on rift demons, using a fire mine/pull of the abyss/immolate combo that's deadly. Rift magic is also useful at keeping the monsters away from her long enough for the warriors to use war cry and get their attention. They find a veridium mine and fight some Freemen there and take pretty heavy damage. Soldiers and their metal shields—what she wouldn't give to be able to dispel a shield.

By then it's late in the day and they have to turn back and head back to camp.

*

They settle in, gathering around the campfire at Hill camp. Iron Bull slipped off a little while ago with the Requisition Officer and she's pretty sure, whatever he's filling, it isn't requisitions. She is wrapped in a bearskin, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, Cole sitting to her left, Blackwall to her right. Cole is turning a stone back and forth between his fingers, examining it.

“It used to be bigger once, song through its crystals, clean and strong. The music is faded now, bare whispers it strains to hear.”

Blackwall snorts, not unkindly. “Only you could find sadness in a _rock_.”

“The trees are sad, too,” Cole tells him. “They've forgotten their names.”

“Right.” Blackwall rises from the ground to crouch beside the fire, picking up a small branch and beginning to stoke the fire with it.

Blackwall doesn't understand, but she does. “Better that they've forgotten.”

Blackwall glances back and forth between the two of them, his confusion evident in his frown. “I'm used to this from him and Solas, but you being cryptic is new.”

She remembers the story by heart, the way she had heard it her whole life and been taught to tell it as First of her clan. She doesn't draw upon her storytelling voice though, tone low and quiet as she speaks from memory.

“After the elves escaped the slavery of Tevinter, the children of Andraste gifted them with the Dales as a reward for their part in the war. And for a time, it was home.” She pauses and draws a breath. “The trees in the Emerald Graves were planted in honor of every elven warrior who pledged guardianship of the Dales, and they became the Emerald Knights of Halamshiral. Then the Chantry marched on the Dales and the Emerald Knights perished almost completely.” She lets the gravity of the words carry into silence for a moment. “Others look and see only trees, but we see sacrifice; lives given in the name of freedom.”

It's not the full story, but it's enough.

“Damned shame.” Blackwall shakes his head in regret. 

“These trees have lived a long time. No one has ever seen a dead one. If they don't remember,” she continues, glancing at the canopy of branches above her, “then it doesn't hurt them anymore.”

He follows her look upward, and she's still not certain he understands, but she supposes it doesn't matter. 

It brings her a small measure of comfort.

 

*

The follow the same path they'd followed the day before, passing the veridium mine, and eventually the path begins to slant upward, opening to forest again near the top of a waterfall. She's cutting an embrium flower for potions near the very top when she notices a body on the rock above where the water pours out. She leaps up with some difficulty and finds a battered notebook near the corpse. It's filled with cryptic references to what she assumes are locations within the Emerald Graves. She'll have to puzzle it out later.

A little further down the path in Peacewood, along the river, they find the first of the smugglers; a camp with three red Templars in armor, still mostly human but no less hostile than the crystalline kind. They take them down without too much difficulty and she finds a letter among the wreckage of the camp. It claims the red lyrium isn't coming from the Deep Roads, which leaves her wondering where else it could possibly be coming from. For a moment she wishes Varric were here, but he probably wouldn't have any more of an idea than she does.

The spend until mid-afternoon trekking to the second location on the other side of the Graves, passing a Villa and skirting the edge of what looks to be a fortified outpost. Given how well trained those Freeman seemed to be yesterday she's not in a hurry to go up against them again if she can avoid it.

They fight four armored red Templars at a camp site in Stonewolf Green, and she finds a letter spattered with blood but still legible. This one refers to Samson by name.

It's growing dark by the time they backtrack and make camp in Briathos' Steps. There's a huge statue of Fen'Harel right in the center of where they set up, but there are so _many_ statues of Fen'Harel everywhere here and in the Exalted Plains that she's beginning to reach an uneasy familiarity with them.

*

They set out early the next morning, pausing at the Rush of Sighs to look up at a painting on an ancient, gigantic rock. It's flaked some with time, but its red, black and white pigments are still very bright.

“All this—these statues—they have to mean something, right?” Blackwall asks.

Ancient statues and paintings of her people, and even she does not know what they mean. 

“Something,” she agrees. “I wish I knew what.”

They cross the river into Firewater Garden, uncertain what to expect. Everything seems quiet and peaceful enough, august rams rushing about and bronto's grazing peacefully. She climbs up the rise of a large, white rock, to the flat top and stands on it, taking in her surroundings. The rock she's standing on is level with the grass, and it's surprisingly a fairly open area, allowing her to see much to the east and west, and quite a bit to the north as well. 

There. Almost directly straight ahead of her.

There's a makeshift camp in the distance across an expanse of green grass, set up in front of the trunk of a massive tree. A couple of tents, a wooden crate turned upside down to act as a table, a cooking pot suspended on sticks above the remains of a fire. It's occupied by two armored red Templars and two of the purple skinned ones with jagged red lyrium spikes sticking up from their humped backs. Red Templar horrors, she recalls, the ones that literally spew red lyrium and nearly took out her whole party in Haven before she'd gotten to the supply cache. They've learned a lot since then, though, have grown far more skilled, and she isn't worried about taking them on.

She's working out her plan of attack when she realizes the ground is shaking, trembling with the force of—

There is a crashing sound to her left and her head snaps around, eyes widening in horror.

It's easily six or seven times her height, long limbs covered in mottled gray skin, mangy fur encircling its neck and hips. Two enormous tusks protrude from the jaws of its bat-shaped head, long teeth between them blunted and cracked. A single, baleful eye glares out at the world from just above its mouth, and for one, shock-filled moment, she distantly wonders where its nose is.

The world thunders around them and she snaps back to reality, survival instinct kicking as she scrambles backwards off the rock, motioning for the rest of the party to do the same. Above her, something huge flaps its wings, and she looks up, getting a glimpse of a dragon through the trees. Fenedhis. Shit, shit, shit.

The dragon keeps flying north and she breathes out a shaky sigh of relief. The world shakes as the giant takes another step, and she looks over the top of the rock they'd been standing on, her view level with the ground, their position keeping them hidden from the giant's direct line of sight.

“Hungry, so hungry,” Cole says, channeling the giant's feelings, she guesses. “Sharp, slicing need--”

“Hush, Cole,” she whispers, and he falls silent.

The final letter for Cullen will have to wait, probably for a very long time. They're not strong enough to fight something that big, yet, much less red Templars on top of it. They need more study and practice. Something that large isn't likely to be a wandering creature. Its home is here somewhere.

Glad as she is that they'd avoided the fight, she's unhappy about not being able to get the final letter for Cullen. She stands, dejected as she watches the giant continue on in front of her, about to turn away.

And then-- something miraculous happens.

The giant's head slowly turns, registering the red Templars' presence. It takes one step in their direction and a red Templar horror opens its mouth, red lyrium spewing forth.

The giant lifts its arms over its head, hands clasped in a double fist, and brings them down on top of the red Templar horror spitting lyrium at it. The armored Templars are falling back as the horror is knocked flat on the ground, second horror flanking the giant and releasing another stream of lyrium at it. The giant ignores it, leaping forward to land on the armored Templars and horror struggling to get to its feet, and she doesn't love their chances of winning this fight.

She doesn't have much time before it kills them all. Motioning at everyone else to stay put, she casts a barrier spell on herself and sprints across the grass in the direction of the camp.

The ground seems to rock beneath her feet as the giant brings a boulder down on the entire group. During the fight they've all moved several dozen yards to the northeast of the camp, the giant's back turned toward her, and she has a clear shot to get in and out without even being noticed if she's quick enough. _The note, where's the note?_ she wonders, frantic as she scans the camp.

The red Templar horrors have circled back around in the direction of the the camp, giant leaping to land on them with both feet, and she can feel the impact travel up through the shuddering ground, wracking her bones. Creators, she can _smell_ it, stench of carrion and unwashed filth permeating the air, and she gags, retching. Heart hammering in her chest, blood pounding in her veins, fear threading through her nerves and drawing them tight, she can feel the power of the mark building to a crescendo inside her. She shakes her head sharply, willing it down, and her eyes catch sight of a slip of paper on the upside-down crate.

The giant is mere _yards_ from where she stands, its back turned toward her again.

She snatches the letter from the makeshift wooden table and _runs_.

*

“You're crazy, boss,” Iron Bull says once they cross the river, pausing to catch their breath. “You know that?”

“So I've been told.”

“I like that about you.” He gives her a broad smile. “Still wish we could have killed it,” he adds, looking wistfully back the way they'd come.

“Some other time.”

His faces lights up. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

*

They make camp in Gracevine, dark upon them before they're even done setting up. They cook a meal of august ram meat, and Iron Bull chews with great vigor, juice running down his chin, eating so much she isn't sure how he can walk to his tent.

On her left, Cole is sitting quietly, contained, watching the fire dance. On her right, Blackwall is whittling a branch with a carving knife, the silence between them palpable.

“We'll head back at first light to get the letters to Cullen,” she says, more for something to say than any other reason. 

“I doubt Cullen wanted that last letter that badly,” Blackwall comments. His tone conveys everything he doesn't say; it was stupid and reckless, she could have easily died.

He's completely right on every count, and she's well aware. He's also clearly concerned about her, but she can't deal with that right now.

“It wasn't my brightest plan,” she admits. “But it all turned out.” She shrugs as if to say it's no big deal. As if she hadn't been terrified, within an inch of unleashing utter destruction in front of an entirely different group of friends.

Blackwall sighs, brows rising as he shakes his head, seeming to wash his hands of it, and then he tosses the branch into the fire, standing and walking away in the direction of his tent.

She wonders how he would have looked at her, talked to her if she'd used the destructive power of the mark earlier. _If_ he would have talked to her or looked at her. She shouldn't have put herself in a position where she might need to use it, but she'd seen the opportunity and had known it would be the only one they'd get for some time.

She looks down at the green light dancing on the surface of her palm, calm now, nothing of the urgent need she'd felt earlier.

“Hiding, hurting. You don't want them to see,” Cole says, his faded blue eyes intent upon her when she looks up. “Bright, blinding light like the sun, burning, scattering ash. You kill the monsters, but you worry they'll think you're one, too.”

She presses her lips together, hands slipping from the loose folds of her arms to slide around her ribs, embracing herself as she leans forward. She draws her knees up close, chin resting in the dip between them. “Maybe I am. Or close enough for some people that it doesn't matter.”

“You aren't. You glow, shine. Your magic is pure, channeled from the Fade.”

She knows how Cole sees her. “It's not that simple.”

“Yes. It is.”

“Sweet, darling Cole,” she sighs the words, lifting her chin to look at him, her eyes searching his. “I don't frighten you, do I?”

“No.” He seems almost surprised she would ask, but completely certain of his answer. “I want to help, but you're too strong, too loud.”

She wonders when he had snuck up on her, this strange, pale boy with his patchwork clothes and ragged blond hair falling into his eyes. Stolen right into her heart and made a space for himself there.

“You can.” She looks away, eyes falling to find the fire, and then she lets her weight shift left, head resting against his shoulder.

“ _This_ is how I can help,” he says with realization, sounding happy.

“Yes.”

“Heart longing for the feel of fur against your cheek, tickling the skin, warm arm strong, wrapped around you like when he carried you.”

“Yes. But this still helps,” she tells him.

They sit there in silence for a while, fire crackling and beginning to burn low. After a bit, Cole lifts his arm and wraps it loosely around her, hand resting on her right shoulder. It's an awkward movement, unfamiliar as it must be to him, but she's grateful that he makes the effort, drawing comfort from the feeling. She drifts downward into sleep, sliding into its embrace, Cole's voice carrying to her in the instant before darkness claims her completely.

“He remembers sometimes, too.”

  
  



	14. Full Disclosure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Cullen, as promised.
> 
> Chess match and what follows, next chapter.

Cullen is pure determination when he tells her the smugglers they interrogated gave up their main source of red lyrium. He moves and speaks with purpose, crisp and crackling around the edges, anger and disgust an undercurrent that fuels his focus. He's a man of action, and now they can _take_ action, potentially wiping out the whole operation. He'd needed this.

She compliments him on his work and assures him that she'll take care of the situation in Sahrnia Quarry.

There's a pause between them, and then his voice softens a bit when he speaks again.

“You risked much to get this information.” It's not quite a question.

“It was worth it.” The smile she gives him is warm, sincere.

He returns her smile, head tilting to the side for a moment, and then he clears his throat as he glances away, looking down at the desk before he meets her eyes again. “I suppose you have the mark to help protect you now, but you should still be cautious.”

She feels her blood freeze in her veins, stomach plummeting to her feet. Her gaze drops to her toes as she berates herself. Stupid, so stupid. Of course he knows. She usually has so much going on, she sometimes forgets the details of every mission get written into reports. 

“Of course.” She manages to push out the words, unable to look him in the eye for fear of what she might see there, her gaze middling around the desk somewhere. “I, um, need to go.”

She turns and hurries from his office. She thinks he might call after her, but she's so far down the steps by then, chatter in the courtyard echoing off the stone, that it's difficult to tell.

*

She heads to the Undercroft to see what ingredients she needs for various potions and grenades. The sound of the waterfall echoes within the cave-like room and she's always found it soothing, though she does sometimes have to raise her voice to be heard by Dagna and Harritt. She perches on the slight step next to the potion mixing table, looking through various lists, frowning at the one labeled “Courtyard Practice Ground”. It's a sparring ring for soldier practice, and the quarries and logging stands, she understands. Those seem like reasonable resources for building something that will likely be a fenced-in circle with a stone foundation... but what the fuck does the Quartermaster need with thirty elfroot to make that happen? Does the building team plan on smoking them while they work?

She shakes her head with a raise of her brows and sets the paper aside. She notes that she needs more blood lotus for a potion upgrade. She'd picked up seeds in the Emerald Graves, she can plant those in the herb garden this afternoon. For now, she needs to mix up some more regeneration potions. If what little they know of Emprise du Lion and Sahrnia Quarry holds true, they're going to need them when they set out again.

She puts the lists back into the file and then walks to the mixing table. Preparing to get her hands sticky with elfroot juice, she wonders why she doesn't have people to do this part for her.

*

After she cleans every last bit of juice from beneath her fingernails, she heads to the garden, prepared to be filthy up to the elbows and have to painstakingly clean her nails _again_ by the time she's done. She really needs to hire someone to take care of this sort of thing. She makes a mental note to bring it up to Josephine.

She can't really complain about the garden, though. There's an enjoyment that comes from collecting herbs and planting new seeds that she can't deny. It reminds of the planting she used to do with her clan. Simpler times. Hungrier times, to be sure, but simpler by far.

A while later she waters the newly planted blood lotus seeds, and then sets about washing her hands in the water remaining in the bucket. Wildflowers watered with the last, bucket left upside down in the dirt, and then she sets off for the Hall at her usual rapid pace.

Maybe she can skirt past Solas and go see what Dorian's up to--

She practically plows into Cullen coming through the door to the garden, hands rising instinctively to stop their collision. Her chest is nearly touching his, first two fingers and thumbs of her hands pressed against the cool metal of his breastplate, outer two touching bear fur. It's not as coarse as she would have thought. The thought is idle, distant as she stares up at him for a long second, breath catching in her throat as he reaches out, palm of his hand cupping her shoulder to steady her. 

“Inquisitor. Are you all right?”

She's never been this close to him (and conscious) before, and he's so tall, his hand on her warm even through leather, those hazel eyes staring directly down into hers with concern. Close, so close, and if she rose up on her tiptoes, she could _just_ kiss the fullness of his mouth, taste the texture of his scar--

He squeezes her shoulder gently and then releases her, backing up a step to give her space. She forces herself to pull her hands from him and back up a pace as well.

“Yes,” she says, still a bit breathless. “I'm... fine.”

They're standing in the tiny hallway, closed in by stone walls, doors open at each end, but it still feels small, cozy, sunlight falling through the garden doorway at an angle. She reaches down to the hem of her shirt, tugging it smooth, trying to think what else to say, when she remembers she practically ran to get away from him earlier.

“Uh... about this morning...” she starts, not quite certain how to explain.

“You left so quickly, I thought perhaps I... did I do something wrong?” 

“No.” She blurts out the word, too quick to reassure. She stops, takes a breath, letting her lungs expand, and then exhales. “No,” she says again, voice more level. “I just...” She lifts her hands, trying to find the words to articulate what she means. Finally she sighs, giving up, drawing her courage tight around her as she looks him directly in the eye. “You mentioned earlier that I should be cautious with the mark. Why?”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he regards her. “I was going to caution against you relying on it too heavily. It seems to work well enough on demons and undead,” he goes on, “but we don't know how well it might work against a larger creature.” He answers her without hesitation, without even taking a second to think back to what they'd been discussing earlier, and she wonders if he'd gone over and over what he might have said to make her leave so suddenly or if his memory is just that good.

Then his words sink in and all sense of fear flees, disbelief slowly replacing it. “That's what you were going to say?”

“You've only used it twice. You've yet to test it on anything stronger.”

She blinks at him several times. “So... I can disintegrate things with a wave of my hand, and that's all you have to say about it?”

“I thought it seemed a useful ability.” 

He sounds so matter-of-fact all she can do is stare at him for a long moment. “It seems useful?”

“Is... there supposed to be more?” he asks, drawing out the words, seeming uncertain, now.

He doesn't seem to understand at all, and it pains her to be the one to have to point it out. The strain of the last couple weeks bears down on her, driving out all other thought or feeling. “What if it's dangerous? What if _I'm_ dangerous?” The words are pitched low, barely above a whisper, her voice shaking slightly with emotion as she meets his eyes. As much as she might worry what he thinks of her, now that she's here, she'd rather know the truth.

“What do you mean?” He seems honestly confused by her questions. “You didn't harm anyone except the creatures you were fighting. You were in control of it.”

There's truth in that, and it gives her pause, something she hadn't consciously considered. Memory of violent energy rushing through her and she lifts her hand, considering the green light there for a moment before she closes her fingers into a loose fist, hand falling back down to her side. “It didn't feel like control.”

A balding dwarf in blue-tinted platemail shoots them a disgruntled look, light glinting off his armor as he shoulders his way past them, and she realizes they're half blocking the hallway between the Hall and the garden. Cullen seems to realize it, too, because he steps past her and gestures toward the empty marble bench nearby. 

She settles down near the edge, settling her elbows on her knees and leaning forward, fingers lacing together. Over the low stone wall, in the distance, she can see the new apothecary who replaced Adan whose name she can never remember, and Mother Giselle beyond that, walking through wildflowers waving gently in the breeze, their stems weaving in and out between one another. Cullen sits down beside her, not quite enough space between them for another person, his posture mimicking hers.

She doesn't quite know what to do. Now that they've had to move and sit down and make the conversation 'official', everything feels a lot more awkward. She's watching Inquisition banners billow in the wind, about to say something to try and lighten the mood when he speaks. 

“I wouldn't have agreed to make you the Inquisitor if I thought you were dangerous.”

She lets her left elbow slide out a bit further on her knee and turns her head to look at him. One of her braids falls loose from behind her ear and she lets it dangle, brushing against her cheek, her attention focused on him.

“Maker,” he breathes. “You have a mark on your hand connected directly to the Fade, you fight demons constantly.” He turns his face to look at her. “That you weren't possessed early on was a testament to your strength of will. And you've only grown stronger.”

She finds it difficult to believe he could have so much faith in her, given that he'd been a Templar and what he'd witnessed in Kirkwall. But she can't doubt the sincerity in his words, or the slight pride she can sense behind them. “So you really don't...worry about me?”

“I don't worry about your use of magic.” There's something about the specific way he says it that catches her attention, but she's too distracted to think about it right now.

She loosens her interlaced fingers, right thumb rubbing across the mark on her left palm, light calluses and tickling energy. “But you haven't seen it.”

“The power of the mark? I imagine it must be something to witness,” he says, sounding appreciative.

“It's... it can be frightening.”

He glances at her hands. “Does it frighten _you_?”

“A... bit,” she admits. “But... after I used it... Sera was terrified of me, Solas couldn't stop looking at me like I'm some kind of experiment, and Cassandra wouldn't look at me at all.”

“Perhaps they just need some time,” he suggests. “With everything that's happening, all the good you've done, it seems unlikely that something like this would change their opinion of you.” He pauses, and then his expression changes fractionally, eyes lighting up as he seems to realize something. “Is that why you left so quickly this morning?”

She nods, looking out at the garden. Orange leaves tumble lazily in the breeze, and there's a runner speaking with the new apothecary. “I couldn't deal with someone else looking at me like I'd grown another head—or not looking at me, as it were.”

“I should think you'd know better than that by now.”

The reproach in his voice is gentle, but it surprises her, nonetheless, her eyes widening, strange sadness welling up, unbidden, inside her. Maybe she should know better. After all, he's been there for her time and again. 

Still, he doesn't know everything, yet. 

“That's not all there is to it.” She takes a deep breath and half turns on the bench to face him. “Solas and I figured out I can enter other people's dreams.”

 _That_ gets a reaction out of him, brows rising, eyes going wide. She's pretty sure he stops breathing for a second, which is something she's never witnessed before.

“Not that I would do it unless they wanted me there, they'd have to want me there,” she hurries to add. “I can't just wander in, or even peek in. I'd actually have to force my way inside, if I wasn't welcome, and I would _never_ do that to anyone. You believe that, don't you?”

He considers her for a few long seconds that feel like eternity, her heart threatening to burst with the fear she sees in him, and then, slowly, he relaxes by fractions, finally nodding. “I believe you. But that _is_ frightening.”

“I know, it's terrifying, right? Thinking someone could just waltz into your mind at any time while you're sleeping. The only way that wouldn't be scary is if you trusted the person enough to welcome them in or to not do it. That's why I haven't told anyone else.”

“That seems wise.”

She swallows down all the questions she wants to ask. He's already said he believes her. She can take that for what it is or try to tear it apart. She lets the moment pass, giving him time to think about it, eyes tracing out the shape of the stones that make up the walkway. A nobleman walks past, gold buckle on his ridiculous shoe worth enough to feed her clan for weeks. At least they have enough, now. Everything she can send them without injuring their pride. Enough to make sure their bellies are well-fed, their furs warm, their aravels in good repair. Once the man's footsteps fall out of earshot, Cullen speaks again.

“It was Solas' dream you went into?”

Having been given a few minutes, Cullen seems to have moved on for the moment.

She nods, watching him think about that.

“And he was open to you being there?”

She can practically see the gears turning in his mind.

“Yes. But not like that.” She rolls her eyes briefly upward with a shake of her head. “We just talked.”

He starts to protest, “I didn't--”

“You didn't have to,” she cuts him off with a smirk. “I could see it all over your face.”

“Well, I wasn't going to say anything.” He very nearly sounds indignant. “People usually find me more difficult to read.”

“At times,” she responds, putting a teasing emphasis of annoyance on the words. _Like almost every time I flirt with you._

He chuckles, and then his brows draw together, amusement fading as he turns thoughtful. “But... you could have...?”

Is he seriously asking her if she could have had sex with Solas in the Fade?

“Commander,” she gasps, surprise only half-feigned.

“Sorry,” he apologizes instantly, cheeks flushing. “I was just... Forget I asked.”

“No. It's all right.”

“No, I shouldn't have asked,” he says, holding up a hand.

“Cullen.” She touches his shoulder—mostly she touches bear fur, but it seems to have the intended effect of getting him to focus on her. “I wasn't offended, just surprised.” And it's not like she could be annoyed at him even if it did bother her; she's the one who'd asked him about his Templar vows, after all. “For the record, the answer is yes.”

“But...” His looks back and forth between her and somewhere over her left shoulder-ish, hand rubbing at the back of his neck before he lifts it and extends his fingers as if in question. “Would it be... real?” 

“Real?” she echoes, considering. She hadn't really given it much thought before. “In terms of 'if you did, did it really happen'? If the other person is actually there in the Fade with you, then yes. Would it feel real?” That, she has to think about for a longer time. She remembers Haven, the snow falling all around, the sensation of cold. 

“Solas' shoulder brushed against mine,” she recalls, touching her right shoulder with the memory. “And it felt real enough that I didn't question it. So... I suppose... touching, kissing,” she trails her fingers down her upper arm, watching them move, imagining, “ _all_ of it...” fingertips drifting down to her wrist, catching against the bare skin of her hand, drifting over the backs of her knuckles, “would feel so real...” out to the edges of her fingers and then down the inside to the sensitive skin of her unmarked palm, “it would be difficult to tell the difference.”

She breaks from the thought as if from a trance, eyes lifting to find his. His eyes are fixed on where her fingertips rest against her palm, and he seems just as lost in thought as she had been. She wonders if he's thinking about Fade-sex, sex-sex, or if she just took things so far that he can't look her in the eye, because damn, that had gotten a little more sensual than she'd intended.

_Or maybe he's just wondering what's being served for dinner tonight._

“But then,” she goes on, pulling her hands apart, “I haven't experienced it firsthand.”

Cullen's attention snaps back to her face, but it takes him a second to find her eyes, gaze rising slowly from... her lips? Is she imagining things or--

“Commander,” Dorian calls out, shattering the moment, both of them sitting up straight and composing themselves. 

“There you are,” Dorian declares as he walks up. “And with our lovely Inquisitor, I see. Whatever could the two of you have been discussing so intently?” He strokes his chin, contemplative as he regards them.

“You're late,” Cullen informs him, folding his arms over his chest.

“Nonsense. I'm right on time.” 

_Well, this should be interesting_ , she thinks, settling in to watch.

Cullen's expression doesn't change an inch, he just looks up at Dorian from under his brows.

“All right,” Dorian relents. “I was slightly delayed by a new shipment of books. They actually sent me something worth reading this time, can you believe it? And then there were delightful frilly cakes in the kitchen. Sadly, I couldn't sweet talk the cook into giving me one and I lack Cole's ability to take one and make her forget. I should have gotten points just for trying to sweet talk her—dreadful woman, that cook.”

“Good thing there wasn't anything shiny along the way or you might never have made it,” Cullen remarks, droll.

“Now that you mention it, I did stop by the training yard earlier, but it was rather _too_ shiny. Full armor is terrible for accentuating the human form.” Dorian shakes his head with regret. “But...” he crosses his arms over his chest, looking back and forth between them, “you seem to have found a way to pass the time.”

“Yes,” Cullen agrees. “But now I don't have enough time for our game.”

“Tomorrow, then?” Dorian asks. “Same time?”

“If you're late tomorrow I'll consider it a concession.”

“Right, then. On time tomorrow for giving you a sound beating.”

“Well,” Cullen rolls a low laugh into his words, “we'll see about that, won't we?” The smirk he gives Dorian is truly smug, and damn, he's always gorgeous and incredibly competent, which combined is almost too much for her to withstand normally, but when he smirks like _that_ , she wants to jump into his lap and take him right there in front of the whole garden. 

Fenedhis. She bites down her lower lip and forces herself to look away.

An Orlesian woman passes by, her voluminous skirt swishing with hues of silver and royal blue, stitched with shimmering gold, and then Cullen rises from the bench with a clink of armor, turning his attention toward her. “Inquisitor,” he says by way of goodbye, inclining his head.

“Commander,” she nods back with what she hopes is a normal expression.

Dorian sits on the bench alongside her, not at all particular about the space he's taking up, outer thigh pressed against hers as he leans back against the stone wall. “So what _were_ you two talking about?” he asks.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” she teases, tucking the braid that escaped earlier back behind her ear.

“That would be why I asked.”

“You're the one who has a date with him tomorrow.” She turns halfway around on the bench to regard him. “What game are you two playing, anyway?”

“Chess, of course.”

“Oh, _of course_ ,” she says, mocking his tone. “I'm Dalish, remember?”

Dorian leans forward, looking at her with new interest. “You mean you've never played?”

“No, I have. But only since I joined the Inquisition. Josephine insists it's an important part of understanding nobility and The Game.”

“I see. Care to test your skill, Inquisitor?”

*

They both still have most of their pieces on the board when a messenger interrupts them. Leliana has information for Dorian about what's happening in Qarinus, and she does have other things she needs to do.

Maybe she can find some time to watch Cullen and Dorian's chess match tomorrow afternoon.

  
  



	15. Appreciate the Distraction

She has a War Room meeting first thing in the morning, still sipping tea as she frowns over her decisions. She finally assigns each of her advisors a task and they exit the room, leaving her chewing on her lower lip, staring at the map in consternation.

“Is everything…?” Cullen’s voice, and she’d thought he’d gone with Leliana and Josephine. He’s standing near the doors, most of his features lost to shadow. “Are you all right?”

She loves Dorian, and he will happily listen to anything she wants to tell him, but he rarely asks how she's doing. Of everyone she knows, Cullen's the one who consistently asks how she's doing, who's always genuinely interested in her answers. How odd that he should be the person she's confided in the most since she joined the Inquisition. He, a former Templar and she, a mage, and he's probably the closest friend she has. She wonders if he thinks of her the same way? 

And then there’s the part of her that wants to drag him to the floor, kissing him, clutching at each other with greedy hands until neither one of them can stand it—

She is suddenly, profoundly aware that they’re alone in the War Room together. She clears her throat into the silence, forcing herself to get a grip.

“Fine. Just… sometimes I wonder if I’m making the right decisions, here.” She nods in the direction of the table. “So many things are happening that I can’t see to personally. Having to make do with what information we collect sometimes doesn’t seem like enough.”

“We do the best we can with what we have,” he says, matter-of-fact. Then, after a moment, he goes on, his tone arch. “For what it’s worth, the world hasn’t ended, yet.”

She smiles, nodding. “I guess I’ll have to content myself with that.”

“Is there anything else I can help with?” he asks after a moment.

_Oh so very many things._

She shakes her head, moving toward the doors. “No. I’m good.”

They walk the long hall together, side by side in silence, and she breathes a sigh when they reach the Hall, setting off in different directions.

Whether it’s a sigh of relief or regret, even she isn’t sure.

*

She spends the morning and most of the early afternoon with Josephine and Vivienne, trying to remember what each increasingly ridiculous piece of silverware on the table is used for. The excesses of nobility will always be beyond her, but she does her best to learn, knowing it will be important when they reach the Winter Palace in Halamshiral.

Halamshiral, she thinks. Built by the elves themselves at the end of The Long Walk, its name literally meaning, “the end of the journey”. Another place claimed by human hands during the Exalted March on the Dales.

“Darling.” Vivienne’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “You simply _must_ pay attention if you are to have any hope of surviving the Winter Palace.”

“Let us start again,” Josephine suggests.

*

By the time she leaves them, she thinks she’s got the proper use of utensils down well enough to avoid getting stabbed outright at the dinner table.

 _And people call the elves savage_ , she thinks, with a shake of her head.

She heads down through the kitchen from Josephine’s office, passing a huge, bubbling pot of stew that makes her mouth water, scent of meat and onions rich on the air. The scullery maid sweeps the stone floor, kitchen maid stirring the pot, the cook nowhere in sight. She’s tempted to nab one of the freshly baked buns cooling on a nearby rack, but curbs the urge, knowing it’ll come back on these two when the cook discovers it missing. Of course, she _is_ the Inquisitor. If she just asked…

But she’s out the door by then, descending the stairs to the stables.

She stops and speaks with Master Dennet briefly, making sure he’s happy and well supplied, and then checks in on her red hart, stroking its muzzle and scratching behind its ears while she hand feeds it some fresh grass.

She exits the stables with the nagging sense that there’s somewhere she’s supposed to be. She glances up, noting the position of the sun in the sky—and then she remembers; Dorian and Cullen’s chess match.

She hurries in the direction of the garden, hoping she hasn’t completely missed it.

*

She finds them under the stone gazebo in the garden, Dorian gloating about his imminent win, Cullen giving back as good as he's getting. He's as completely comfortable and confident here as he is on the battlefield, practically grinning as he tells Dorian he has this match.

She steps up into the gazebo, and Cullen half-rises from his seat, seeming startled by her appearance. “Inquisitor.”

Does he think there's some sort of crisis?

Dorian takes his movement as an indication of conceding the game and Cullen sits back down, settling into his seat.

“Are you two playing nice?” she asks.

“I'm _always_ nice,” Dorian replies. To Cullen he says, “You need to come to terms with my inevitable victory. You'll feel much better.”

“Really?” Cullen asks, all sarcasm, grinning broadly as he makes his move. “Because I just won, and I feel fine.”

“Don't get smug,” Dorian tells him, holding up one hand. “There'll be no living with you.”

“I should return to my duties as well,” Cullen says, still half-smiling from his victory. “Unless you would care for a game?” He gestures at the board.

She'll almost certainly lose. Chess is a tactical game, something a Commander would have to be exceptionally good at. Still, if it means spending time with him...

“Prepare the board, Commander.”

He sets up the board as he tells her about his older sister and how she always used to win against him, how he and his brother practiced until he finally beat her. The corner of his mouth is tugging in that crooked smile, and for a moment he looks happy—purely, truly happy—and suddenly she realizes it’s an expression she’s never seen him wear before. He looks younger, more vibrant; free of the weight he always seems to carry on his shoulders. It makes her smile in return, pang through her heart at odds with the moment, and she wishes he looked like this more often.

And... this is new. In all the times they've talked, he's never mentioned his family. She asks about them, and he tells her he has two sisters and a brother who moved to South Reach after the Blight, though he admits that he doesn't keep in touch with them as often as he should.

He seems almost antsy with energy, eager to play and talk, and she wonders what’s gotten into him.

_Maybe it’s that you’re actually doing something fun together, for once?_

Fair point. They’re usually so busy, so overwhelmed by events around them that they don’t get a chance to just… relax like this.

She considers the board, thinking about her first move, and well, she probably doesn't have a chance of winning, but she can do her best. She moves one of her pawns and then gestures at him. “All right, let's see what you've got.”

“What about you?” he asks as he ponders his move. “Any brothers or sisters?”

“Two older brothers—twins.”

“So you were the youngest.” He sets his pawn down, eyes settling on her. “Was it difficult?”

“Sure.” She chuckles. “For them. They were always trying to keep track of me and keep me out of trouble.”

His brows draw together, head tilting slightly to one side. “What about your parents?”

“They died when I was young.”

“I'm sorry.” He sounds so sincere, looking at her as if he truly cares, and she’ll never understand how his voice can be so gentle sometimes. She wonders how many people have heard it this way, soft and nearly sweet.

“It's all right,” she tells him, not wanting to hear sorrow in his voice for her. Not for this. “I was so young I barely remember them.”

“What… happened?” he asks, as if he isn’t certain he should.

It had happened so long ago and she’d been so little that it’s not a wound, not even a scar. She only knows what happened because her brothers told her when she was older. “We were traveling and the weather forced my clan to take shelter in an old ruin. We ran into a varterral.”

“A varterral?”

“Sort of like a cross between a spider and a mantis, only huge.” She lifts her arms in a half circle to accentuate its size. “The ancient elves created them to be guardians. They don't normally attack elves, but our Keeper said this one had been driven mad. Maybe by time, maybe by something else. My parents were both hunters. They died during the fight.” She tilts her head to the side as she considers her pawn, feeling she should have more to add to that. She's never had to tell the story to anyone before. “So... my brothers raised me.”

“It seems they did well.”

She looks up and smiles at him. The smile he gives her in return is warm, lingering just a little too long.

He glances down at the board before looking up at her again. “There's so much I don't know of Dalish culture. I feel like I should know more.”

It makes sense that he wouldn’t. “We're not generally inclined to share our secrets with humans.”

“I...” The smile fades from his face. “I understand.”

“Oh. I didn't mean...” She rolls her eyes at herself, rubbing at her forehead with her fingertips. “Sorry. I was speaking in the general sense of ‘we’.”

“I would understand if you didn’t want--” 

“Cullen,” she says, one corner of her mouth curving upward. “What do you want to know?”

He inches forward in his seat, eyeing her with almost mischievous curiosity. “There's this word I've heard you mutter. Fenade... fenadis?”

Oh, Creators. “'Fenedhis'. Is that _really_ where you want to start?”

“Why? What does it mean?”

She's grateful she has the board to focus on. “It's an elven curse word.”

“I had gathered that much.” She can hear the wry amusement in his voice.

“It means...” She shifts her shoulders back and forth, uncomfortable, and finally decides to just spit it out. “Well, literally it means 'wolf dick'.”

There's a long silence, and then Cullen says, “Oh.”

She can't help but laugh, finishing her move. “How do I begin to explain?” she asks as she sits back in her seat. She takes a breath and clears her throat. “One of our gods is named Fen'Harel...”

 

*

 

“So,” Cullen says, spreading one hand open, “if the elves believe their gods were created by the world, who do you believe created the world?”

“We've never considered it an important detail.”

“Doesn't that leave room for a being such as the Maker?”

“I suppose so.” She allows for the idea with a shrug. “But we don't believe in such a being.”

He shifts back and forth in his chair slightly, almost... wriggling his hips to get situated. “You know, I've never asked, but... does it bother you that we have different beliefs?”

She wonders that he’d even thought about it. Most humans don’t. But then, he’s never been most humans.

“You're allowed to worship your false gods as long as I'm allowed to worship mine,” she tells him with a grin.

It takes him a second to get it, but then he laughs, hearty and full-throated. “Well, then. Good.”

 

*

 

“You've really never read it?” she asks.

“I lived enough of it.”

“I traded a human a braided leather necklace I'd made for a used copy. My clan never traveled as far west as Kirkwall, but even we heard the stories of what happened there.”

He looks up from the move he'd just made, seeming disturbed by the thought. “So you'd read about me... before you met me?”

“You read about me before you met me.”

“Yes. But not enough to have an opinion of you.”

“Honestly… When I met you, you seemed so different from the person I’d read about that I never gave it much thought.”

“I should hope so.” Emotion passes over his face like a shadow, seeming to deepen the faint lines in his skin.

There’s so much she doesn’t know about him. She wants to know why he changed, why he doesn’t seem to like the person he was before, wants to know if he’s happy with the person he is now, wants to know so many things about him. But if she’s honest, none of those things matter as much as the person he _is_ , the person she knows, the person she… she cares about.

She bites her lower lip, swallowing hard.

“What is it?” he asks, expression smoothing out into light concern, shadow gone as if it had never been. And for someone Josephine had once described as ‘a hammer who sees everything as a nail’ he seems awfully perceptive when it comes to her changes in mood.

“Nothing,” she says, pushing the thoughts to the back of her mind. “I was just thinking back to the story.” She takes a moment, finding her place, breathing in deep and setting off in a different direction. “You weren't in it much... until the final battle. Although I _did_ wonder how you couldn't know Hawke was a mage.”

Cullen comes about as close to rolling his eyes as she's ever seen. “We _knew_. But Hawke and his friends were the only force with that kind of power working for good in the city.”

She leans forward with interest, settling her elbows on the table. “So did it get tiresome ignoring all those fireballs he kept throwing in the courtyard?”

“You wouldn't believe the things I had to pretend not to see,” he chuckles. “Once, Anders and Hawke...”

 

*

 

“I used to sneak away to spy on the human villages we'd camp near. My brothers would get so angry. They swore I'd end up getting killed or worse.”

“Did... anything ever happen?”

She laughs, remembering. “Not the way they thought. There was this one time...”

 

*

 

The shadows of the garden trees have grown considerably longer, and they’ve probably done more talking than playing at this point.

“That's a tough question,” Cullen says, turning his knight back and forth between his thumb and forefinger as he debates. “I suppose… if I had to pick… I'd choose 'I Am The One'.”

“That's my favorite, too,” she says, grinning. “'Once We Were' is a close second, though.”

“I like that one, too.” He looks out at the garden, rubbing his other hand across his chin. “Though they're neither of them very happy songs, are they?”

“Hmm.” She reflects on that for a moment. “No. But sad songs are usually the most beautiful.”

“I suppose the world isn’t the happiest place of late.”

“True enough. But that’s what makes moments like this so nice, right?”

“The company doesn’t hurt.” He settles his elbows on the table and twines his fingers together in a single fist, chin settling on it as he smiles at her.

She’s caught by the expression, and Creators, she can’t tell if he’s flirting with her or if he’s just genuinely enjoying her company. She smiles back, guessing it’s probably the latter, and then averts her gaze before she loses herself in his eyes.

“My turn?”

 

*

 

“You know,” Cullen says, extending his arm in an expansive gesture. “This may be the longest we've gone without discussing the Inquisition--or related matters. To be honest, I appreciate the distraction.”

It’s the longest they’ve gone without discussing various problems, that’s for sure, and she’s enjoyed it a great deal, as well. She glances up at him, smiling. “We should spend more time together.”

He gives her one of his crooked smiles, vague surprise coalescing into a pleased expression. “I would like that.”

She hesitates, thrown by his response, and then says the first thing that comes into her head. “So would I.”

His smile deepens, eyes regarding her with… affection? “You… said that.”

At least he seems more touched than amused by her response. She keeps quiet, not trusting herself to say anything else.

“We should... finish our game. Right? My turn?” His voice is so gentle, like he’s afraid he might scare her off if he isn’t careful, and the crooked smile on his face just won’t quit.

 

*

 

“I believe this one is yours,” Cullen proclaims, sitting back in his chair. “Well played.”

Well played, her ass. He'd let her win.

“We shall have to try again sometime.”

They rise from the table, Cullen beginning to remove the pieces from the board. When it’s bare, he places it into a shallow wooden crate beside the table, beginning to gather up the pieces next. She helps him, two handfuls scattered into the crate, and then they both reach for the final piece, hands knocking into each other and sending it rolling off the edge of the table. 

“It’s all right--”

“No, I’ve got--”

They both kneel down quickly, leaning forward to grab the errant piece—and the crowns of their heads collide with a solid thump. 

“Ow,” she comments, backing up a notch.

“I—I’m so sorry,” Cullen says, reaching for her without thought, one hand touching her cheek, other gingerly touching the top of her head. “Are you all right?” he asks, meeting her eyes.

There’s barely a foot of space between them, the two of them staring directly into each other’s eyes, and for a moment she can’t think, delicious want and need tangling in her guts, nearness of him sending her pulse racing. Skin tingling where he touches her, and she feels nothing of pain, just desire winding deep down into her soul.

“Inq—Maren?”

She blinks rapidly, forcing herself to focus. “F-Fine,” she whispers. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

She just barely nods, holding his gaze, and for an instant she swears she can see the same want in him, guard lowered, warmth and heat and wishing. His touch lingers, and she feels mesmerized, paralyzed by it, wants to lean forward, press her lips to his and end this torment.

His hands slide from her, then, eyes glancing away, one hand reaching out to pick up the fallen tower. He tosses it into the crate, eyes skittering to touch hers and then away. She can’t see anything in them she’d thought she’d seen a moment ago, doubts she’d ever seen it at all.

“I should probably--”

“Get back to work,” she finishes for him with a nod.

She takes careful note of the edge of the table above her, because the last thing she needs is to bang her head into it as she stands up and make a _complete_ idiot out of herself. She pushes to her feet swiftly, before he can reach out to help her up, not wanting him to touch her and potentially confuse her further.

Cullen pushes the box as far under the table as he can manage, rises to his feet, and gives her an uncertain glance. “I’ll…”

“See you later,” she agrees, avoiding his gaze.

“Right.”

She waits until he’s halfway across the garden before she lets her eyes follow him, watching dappled late afternoon sunlight play across his broad shoulders. 

“Ready to set yourself on fire yet?” comes a voice from her left, and she startles so badly that she nearly knocks the table over.

“Fenedhis, Varric,” she hisses, favoring him with a scathing glare. “Were you hiding in the bushes?”

“I’ve been standing right here for the last five minutes.” When she eyes him, skeptical, he goes on, “No offense, Inquisitor, but I’m pretty sure the whole garden could have burned down just now and neither one of you would have noticed.”

She utters a short, bitter laugh. “Not likely.” 

“Have you _seen_ the way you two look at each other?”

“What do you mean?” she asks, frowning.

Varric rubs at the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Just… go talk to him.”

“What? No. I can’t.”

“You’re gonna have to. He’s never going to talk to you about it unless you bring it up.”

“Why not?” she asks, more sharply than she’d intended.

Varric sighs heavily. “Look, not only are you are an attractive woman he probably thinks couldn’t possibly be interested in him… you’re also the Herald, the Inquisitor, and his _boss_.” 

She opens her mouth to make a retort and then stops, snapping it shut, unable to refute what he’s saying. 

“All right,” she says, tone softening. “Let’s say you’re right… What if he’s not interested? I mean we’ve been friends, good friends, but…”

“Well, then you’ll know.”

“Yeah.” She nods, gnawing at the inside of her cheek. “That’s kind of the bitch of it.”

The truth is, she can debate Varric's advice all she wants. Deep down, she knows he's right.

She needs to talk to Cullen.

  
  



	16. Too Much To Ask

As long as she’s being truthful, there are a few people she needs to talk to in addition to Cullen, and even given the subject matter, she’s pretty sure those conversations will be easier.

The shadows are growing long in the courtyard as she pushes open the door to the armory, the cling and clang of hammered metal pounded out in a rhythm amidst the palpable heat. She climbs the stairs inside the armory to find Cassandra sitting at the table on the second level, dark head bent over a stack of paper, brow furrowed in deep thought.

Cassandra doesn’t look up as she approaches, absorbed in what she can only imagine are reports of some kind, oblivious until she pulls out the chair across from her.

Cassandra looks up, blinking in surprise, and then her features settle as she greets her. “Inquisitor.”

“Am I interrupting?” she asks as she slides into the chair.

“No.” Cassandra sighs. “I have read all of the reports twice now, and I can still find no information on where the Seekers might be.”

“The Seekers have gone missing?”

Cassandra speaks to her for a few moments about her concerns about the Seekers’ sudden disappearance, asking if Maren can have someone look into it, thanking her warmly when she agrees.

After that’s been decided, she hesitates, trying to figure out how to broach the subject she actually came here to talk about. “We… we haven’t spoken since the Exalted Plains. I guess… I wanted to make sure…” She sighs and decides to just ask. “Are we okay?”

Cassandra seems surprised by the question. “Of course. Why wouldn’t we--? Oh,” she says, seeming to realize. She takes a moment, shifting in her chair, wood creaking. “I admit, your use of the mark was… startling. But if whatever gave you the anchor also gave you this power… then I cannot doubt that you were meant to use it.”

She’s not sure it was originally meant to destroy things, but the reasons the power may have manifested are best left for discussion with Solas. Not to mention, she’s still not sure how she feels about it. Still… leave it to Cassandra to take it in stride with all practicality. 

“Thanks, Cassandra.”

“For what?”

“It’s just… nice to know I don’t… you know… scare you.”

“If I were afraid of magic, my career as a Seeker would have been much shorter,” Cassandra tells her, an amused gleam in her dark eyes, and Maren laughs.

She leaves Cassandra with a final promise to have Leliana look into the disappearance of the Seekers.

*

Things with Sera aren’t nearly as difficult to resolve as she would have thought. A few drinks at the bar, a few kind words and a promise to only use her powers against the bad guys, and things seem right again. The hardest part turns out to be getting away before Sera succeeds in getting her completely wasted.

She can’t be hungover in the morning; she’s got one more very important conversation to have.

Still, she tosses and turns in her bed long into the night, considering what she might say.

*

The sun rises in the morning sky, rotunda cut from shadow, light shining from behind it. A movement above catches her eye and she looks up, catching sight of a raven flying from the rookery, its wings cutting against the breeze, body tilting, angling eastward.

She sits at the bottom of the flight of stairs that lead to his office, hands twisting together in her lap. Like that raven, her mission is clear, if only she had the will to get up and do something about it.

It’s not indecision twisting her up inside anymore; now it’s the _decision_. And now that she’s made it, it seems silly to put it off any longer. She knows she should just walk up there and get it over with. The problem is, knowing that doesn’t make the idea any less terrifying.

How bad could it be, she wonders? Well, he could laugh in her face—that would be pretty bad. But she can’t imagine Cullen doing that. If anything, he’d stumble through a polite apology, blushing the whole time he let her down gently. That would be _slightly_ less mortifying, she supposes.

It might not even get that far, she tells herself, even though she doesn’t believe it.

Because much as she needs to talk to him, there’s one thing she needs to know first.

*

He’s kneeling down in front of a bookshelf as she enters, her stomach half-tied in knots. Steeling herself, she walks right up to him, watching him rise to his feet and turn to face her.

“Was there something you needed?” he asks.

_You have no idea._

She takes a breath and decides to get right down to it. “Did you leave anyone behind in Kirkwall?”

He folds his arms over his chest, tilting his head to one side as he replies, “No. I fear I made few friends there, and my family's in Ferelden.”

So far, so good. She just needs to be one hundred percent certain. “No one special caught your interest?”

“Not in _Kirkwall_ ,” he replies, and the emphasis he places on the last word is too obvious for anyone to miss. Not in Kirkwall, but _somewhere_. Here, and her, perhaps? It seems a lot to hope for. But she needs to know.

Formality out of the way, she swallows hard, reaching for her courage. “I thought we could talk. Alone.”

“Alone?” he echoes, surprised, blinking at her. “I w--I mean, of course.”

*

There are birds flying over the battlements as they pass out of an old, moldering bedroom into the sunlight. It seems right somehow; birds flying overhead and butterflies churning in her stomach, nervous energy thrumming through her.

Cullen's rubbing at the back of his neck, looking out over the Skyhold courtyard as they walk. “It's a... nice day.”

“What?” she asks, stopping to look at him.

He turns toward her, starts to say it again and then stops, letting his hand drop to his side. He tilts his head to look at her. “There was something you wished to discuss.”

“Certainly not the weather.” Anxiety causes her to utter the words more harshly than she’d meant to.

“I assumed that much.” He glances away from her, down at the stone of the battlements. “I can't say I haven't wondered what I might say to you in this sort of situation,” he goes on, turning away from her as he walks a bit further along.

So he _has_ thought about it. Then…

“What's stopping you?” she asks, following him a few feet before halting her step and resting one hand along the battlement edge.

“You're the Inquisitor. We're at war... and you... well... I didn't think it was possible.” He's fully, intently focused on her now, and she wonders if he's ever looked her directly in the eye for this long. It's intoxicating, heady, having him so close, and still he hesitates, waiting for a word from her, like every nerve inside her isn’t screaming for him to come even closer.

“And yet I'm still here.”

“So you are.” His voice is gentle as he steps closer to her. “It seems too much to ask.” Closer still, until she can see the flecks of gold clinging to his irises. “But I want to.”

She gazes up at him, caught by his eyes, so warm now, filled with intent as he looks back at her without fear. It’s so overwhelming she nearly forgets to breathe, head tilting upward and back, eyelids lowering, the warmth of his lips just within reach. His hands on her waist, heart speeding up as he leans in, eyes closing, lips parting and finally, _finally_ \--

“Commander,” someone calls out.

Cullen draws back and she closes her eyes, lets her head loll to the side and downward in disappointment.

“You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana's report,” the messenger says, not even looking up from said report, and the urge to drop an immolate spell on him is overwhelming.

“What?” Cullen growls, turning on him.

“Sister Leliana's report,” the messenger says the words almost like a question. “You wanted it delivered without delay.”

Cullen advances a step on the man and she can't see the expression on Cullen's face, but she can imagine it's terrifying based on the way the man's eyes go wide with fear. He seems to clue in then, glancing over at her, and she ducks her head, making a feeble attempt at swiping her braid back behind her ear.

“Or, to your office. Right,” the messenger concludes, and she can see from the corner of her eye that he's beginning to retreat—not just leave, but back away.

She should have known this would happen. Taste of bitterness rising at the back of her throat and the moment is surely gone. He’ll say something about duty calling and she’ll make an attempt at a laugh and they’ll sweep it under the rug and pretend it never happened.

She hears the door close, and turns her head back in Cullen's direction, looking far off to the side so he won't see the disappointment in her eyes. “If you need to--”

He’s on her in an instant—hand sliding behind her neck and pulling her in, her words cutting off in a muffled sound of surprise as he kisses her.

His hands come up to cup her face, desperate press of their lips together, and the feeling of Cullen’s mouth against hers hits her like a drug, blood rushing through her veins. His tongue swirls out across her lower lip and she opens for him instantly, tongue sweeping across his, circling sleek, hot and wet. Cullen kissing down into her with unspoken need, and she rises up on her toes, surging to meet him, regaining her wits enough to grab him by the waist and pull him closer. Warm crush of his body against her, pinned between him and the wall of the battlements, sweet, slick tangle of their tongues making her dizzy, and Creators, she’s been waiting so long, too much and not enough all at once—

He pulls back slowly, kissing her bottom lip before he opens his eyes, drawing away just far enough to look at her. “I'm sorry.” He glances down and to the side, seeming almost embarrassed, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That was um... really nice.” His voice is soft, and he sounds maybe even slightly shaken, looking her in the eye again with that pleased, almost shy smile.

She's glad she's leaning back against the wall of the battlements, because she's not sure her knees would hold her right now. How she manages to find her voice is beyond her. “I believe that was a kiss,” she says, teasing him, breathless. “But I can't be sure, it's all a blur.”

He chuckles, low and throaty. “Yes... well.”

Her implication that they need to try it again so she _can_ be sure seems to get through, because he tilts his head as he leans in to kiss her again. She opens for him eagerly, resting one hand on his hip, then sliding upward to his shoulder, then around the back of his neck and she can't decide, wanting to touch him everywhere all at once.

If the first kiss had been desperate, the second one is anything but, his tongue slowly mapping out the inside of her mouth, the ridges of the roof, the sleek skin of her inner cheek, coming back to circle her tongue again. His hands slide up into her hair, tilting her face so he can get a better angle, nothing shy or uncertain about him at all, now. Sweet and slow and incredibly hot, like they’ve got all the time in the world, and he kisses like the lazy heat of a late summer afternoon. 

He draws back momentarily, and she wraps her arms around his neck, tip of her tongue running along his upper lip until she finds the tiny ridges of skin around the cut bisecting it, licking at them lightly, teasing the texture of his scar with her tongue. He makes a sound that sends shivers racing all through her, kissing down into her more insistently, and Creators, she could do this forever, bodies throwing off heat that has nothing to do with the temperature, mouths fused together, perfect and molten.

They’re both breathing hard when they finally break apart a few minutes later. Cullen’s lips are reddened, glistening from kissing, his eyes slightly glazed, and she’s sure she doesn’t look any more pulled together than he does.

There are guards walking past them, trying their hardest not to make their interest obvious. Cullen glances down at the lack of space between their bodies, seeming self-conscious, and draws back a few inches.

“That was… definitely a kiss,” she says, after a moment.

Arms wrapped around each other, weak-kneed and nearly slack-jawed and she’s still reeling, trying to catch up. She’d come up here prepared to have a conversation, she’d never imagined... the way he’d grabbed her and kissed her, like he was desperate not to let the chance slip away. Like… like he’d been… waiting…

“How long have you been waiting to do that?” she asks.

He chuckles, low and long and sexy. “Longer… than I should admit.” 

“So I take it this means you’re definitely interested?” 

“My… ah, stuttering and stumbling up to this point didn’t give it away?” he asks with a rueful smile.

“I thought maybe I was just making you uncomfortable.”

“Well, yes… but for _good_ reasons,” he hastens to add. Hand cupping her face, and he brushes his thumb along her cheekbone, other hand slipping from her waist, reaching behind him to find hers, pulling it free. He brings her hand up between them and then laces his fingers through hers, lips brushing the skin of her knuckles. “I hope my interest is apparent, now?”

She nods, squeezing his fingers between hers, lowering their interlaced hands just far enough that she can rise up, press her lips to his in a gentle kiss. “Yes,” she breathes against his mouth, and smiles.

“Good,” he whispers, and she can feel him smile back.

She drops back down on her heels after a moment, looking up at him, and there’s regret in his expression now.

“I hate to say this…”

She nods with a resigned sigh. “I know. We both have things we need to get back to.”

“You’ll stop by? Later?”

“As if you needed to ask,” she tells him with a smirk.

He kisses her one last time, full on the mouth, and then pulls away, giving her a crooked smile before he releases her hand and turns, heading back along the battlements to his office.

She stands there for a long time, trying to get her head around it all.

  
  



	17. A Thing For Strapping Young Templars

She spends a good portion of the morning reminding herself to quit smiling like an idiot and trying not to roll her eyes at herself. Creators, you’d think she was a teenager after her first kiss all over again. It’s ridiculous… and yet.

Focus is difficult, but she makes the effort as she tends to various duties. Meeting with nobles fill the morning, along with her training with Josephine. When the sun centers in the sky above Skyhold, she finds herself with some free time and heads to the rotunda, climbing the stairs to the library.

The smell of paper and burning candles fills her nostrils, a scent still new to her, but somehow already comforting. Dorian is sitting by the window in his high backed, leather chair, legs crossed, open book held in one hand. Dust motes dance in the air around him, glittering in the sunlight that angles through the window, and he looks elegant, regal even in repose. 

She picks up a wooden chair from one of the nearby tables, walking into his nook and setting it down next to him. He regards her over the edge of the book he’s reading, one eye narrowing in a squint, corner of his mouth curling upward as she sits down.

She rests her left forearm across her knees, right elbow settling against her wrist, fist pushed up under her chin as she leans slightly forward. “What are you reading?”

“A Complete History of Thedas, Volume Twenty-Five.”

“Riveting, I assume.”

“Scintillating,” he agrees, all sarcasm. He snaps the book closed with an authoritative movement of his fingers. “Not nearly as exciting as what you’ve got going on, though.” He sets the book in his lap, one brow rising as he smiles knowingly at her.

“What do you mean?” she asks, eyes narrowing on him.

“Have a thing for strapping young Templars, I see.”

“What’s this about?” she asks, as if she didn’t come here to tell him all about this very thing.

“Oh, nothing. Just something I find rather adorable about you.”

She shakes her head, staring at him, baffled and annoyed. “It happened five hours ago. How do you already know?”

“You kissed on the battlements.” He folds his arms across his chest and rolls his eyes. “You might as well have raised a banner in the courtyard proclaiming your relationship. I’m in favor, by the way. I’d have snatched him up, myself, but sadly, he doesn’t like men.”

“And you know this because…?”

“Because I flirted with him heavily, of course.” Dorian tsks at her. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

She juts her chin out at him, grinning. “Maybe he does like men, but he’s not interested in you.”

Dorian lifts one hand in her direction, palm outward. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“And I’m going to pretend you don’t think you’re irresistible.”

“My dear Inquisitor,” he scoffs as if she were a mere babe in the woods. “There’s a difference between thinking and knowing.”

She can’t help but laugh. “If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

“What helps me sleep at night would likely keep you awake,” he comments, wiggling his brows at her. 

She doesn’t have time to respond before he tilts his head slightly, expression going thoughtful. “But I happen to have spent some time with our Commander, and he doesn’t look twice at men. Or anyone, for that matter. I would have said he doesn’t like women either…” he rests his elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples his fingers. “But then…” he drums his fingertips together beneath his chin as his eyes narrow on her, glinting with playful affection, “there’s you.”

He’s clearly happy for her. And so is she. Still. “I know… it’s… You’d think I’d never done this before. I’m… on the one hand, I’m dying to go see him, and on the other, I have no idea what happens next.”

“Overly cheerful, strawberry-haired children running about Skyhold with swords or staves, no doubt. Isn’t that usually how these things go?”

She reaches out, shoving hard at both of his knees, the impact destroying his posture completely. “You are the _worst_.”

“Too soon?” he asks in a breezy tone, pretending as if he’d had no idea. “Pity. I always did want to be an uncle.”

“Keep it up and you’ll be lucky to live through tomorrow.”

He sighs dramatically, forearm rising from the arm of the chair, cupped palm catching his cheek. “Fine. I assume you two _talked_ at some point before kissing?”

“I’ve probably talked to him more than anyone else I know,” she admits.

“Now you’re trying to make me jealous.”

Her silence probably says more than her words ever could.

“No?” he asks, sitting forward in his chair. “Well, this _is_ serious. I was going to suggest you talk to him like you did _before_ the kissing.”

“And now?”

“I still suggest that, for the record. But now I want to know what you’ve told him that you haven’t told me.”

“Nothing I wouldn’t have told you,” she insists. “I… it was…I don’t know.” She sighs. “He’s just so easy to tell everything.”

Dorian’s eyes bore into hers as he shakes his head slightly back and forth, dark fringe of his lashes wide around his irises. “You’re doomed. Tiny children, any day now.”

“Fuck off,” she sighs, kicking her foot at his shin

He catches her leg, pulling it up into his lap, fingers of one hand closing around her ankle, other hand picking up the book he’d been reading. Flapping the book open on the arm of the chair, fingers turning decisively to a page, he begins to read to her about the Templar order in the year 9:12 Dragon.

She leans back in her chair, putting her other foot in his lap, and listens.

*

She’d already planned to stop by and talk to Cullen, Dorian’s advice was unnecessary. In fact, she’d been hoping he might have time to spend lunch with her.

Any hopes she’d had are dashed when she enters his office to find him going over construction plans with several workers--fortifications for the battlements, from what she can glean. He lifts his head as she enters, smiling at her for a moment before he makes a motion at the soldiers, greeting her. “Inquisitor. Was there something you needed?”

“It can wait,” she replies, content to wait and wander his office for a few minutes.

She’s never paid much attention to the far side of his office, and it surprises her to find that it’s not quite as empty as she’d thought. The sand bags and training dummy in the one far corner, she can understand. Those make sense for a warrior to have around to use. But the other corner by the door that leads to the rotunda... there's a large pile of timber half-strewn across what looks like what would be a perfectly good couch if the linen cover were removed.

She waits for a lull in his conversation with the soldiers and then asks, “Commander, would it be all right if I had some workers clear this couch? I thought it might be nice if w—I had a place to sit, sometimes.”

The look he gives her suggests he wasn’t even aware there was a couch under there.

“Of course. By all means, Inquisitor.”

“We can talk later,” she tells him while she still has his attention. It’s clear he’s going to busy with the soldiers for some time.

She can see the flash of disappointment in his eyes just before he responds. “Very well.”

She gives him a smile and then lets herself out the other door, heading in the direction of the tavern.

*

She finds one of the workers having lunch in Herald’s Rest and asks him if he can take care of the couch in Cullen’s office, which he promises to do later in the afternoon. She orders a meal for herself from Cabot and carries it up the stairs to where Cole tends to linger. She isn’t sure why he’d decided to haunt the unused, uppermost level of the tavern, but he seems to like it there.

“I’m so glad you’ve come to talk with me,” he greets her, and the happiness in his voice makes her heart melt a little.

They sit facing each other, cross-legged on the dusty floor, and she eats squab and roasted potatoes while Cole tells her more of his time at Adamant Fortress.

*

The rest of her day isn’t nearly as pleasant. She spends hours going through equipment they’d hauled back from the Emerald Graves, working with Dagna to determine what magical properties items might have and work out what would be best for each member of the group. Then she has to send runners to bring each one of them individually to the Undercroft so they can try them on. After that’s done, she spends a couple of hours in and out of the dress that’s being made for her for the ball at the Winter Palace. She supposes it’s pretty enough—she’d picked out the Royale Sea Silk and Infused Vyrantium Samite cloth herself—but it’s more elaborate than anything she’s ever worn in her life.

It’s well into the night when she crosses the bridge between the rotunda and Cullen’s office. The sound of voices singing in the tavern carries on the night wind, faint but discernible as she pushes open the door.

The candles in the candelabras are burning low, throwing flickering shadows against the stone walls. Cullen is mostly cast in shadow, sitting at his desk, hunched over whatever he’s reading, and she wonders how he _can_ read with his body blocking all the light. He lifts his head as she enters and the light illuminates half of his face, casting it in a warm glow.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, brightening when sees her, and the happiness in his smile makes her smile in return. 

The couch has been cleared and its red leather cleaned, by the looks of things. It’s big enough to hold four people comfortably, plenty big enough for her to lie down on if she wants. She wants to, as tired as she is, but settles for sitting instead, sinking into it with a sigh of contentment.

Cullen seems uncertain of what to do, scooting his chair back but not quite rising from it, and she’s too tired to be flustered about what happens now. That’s at least one good thing that’s come out of the rest of her day. She pats the space next to her and smiles. “Come. Sit. Take a break.”

He stands up then, walking around the desk and over to join her. He sits down next to her, leaving a little space between them, letting his back gingerly rest against the couch. He looks down at his hands in his lap and then over at her. “How… um… how was your day?”

“Long,” she sighs. All she wants to do is curl up next him and lay her head on his shoulder, talk to him for a while, but she isn’t sure if… 

If what? If she’s allowed to? He’d told her this morning that he’d been waiting a long time to kiss her like that. Unless he’s changed his mind, he probably wouldn’t object. But it feels, somehow, like it’s too soon.

_He’s had his tongue in your mouth, he probably won’t mind your head on his shoulder._

Unless he’s changed his mind. Which is unlikely, but possible. It’s been nerve-wracking enough, getting to this point with him, and now that they’re here… Well, she can’t go on like this if they’re going to have a relationship. Despite the way he makes her feel, she’s _not_ sixteen anymore.

“This morning… it wasn’t a fluke, right?”

“What?” he asks, surprised. “No.” He hesitates a moment, his voice softening as he adds, “At least, I hope not.” It’s not spoken like a question, but she hears the question anyway.

“Definitely not.” She gives him a small smile, and then asks him another question, one that’s been lurking at the back of her mind for some time now. “Is it odd for you? That I’m Dalish, I mean.”

He tilts his head slightly, looking up and to the left before he looks back at her. “I hadn’t considered. Elves weren’t treated differently in the Circles I served. I didn’t think what it might mean to you… I hope that doesn’t--I mean, _is_ it… odd for you?”

“That I’m Dalish and…” she hesitates, searching for the right word, “involved… with a human? No.” She doesn’t bother to mention how her clan would likely react; they’re not what’s important here. What _is_ important is what she needs to say next, but it’s a lot of truth, the kind that’s going to leave her feeling extremely vulnerable. But she has to know, and it’s better if she knows now. She takes a deep breath and looks him right in the eye. “The only thing that would bother me is if you weren’t serious.”

“I am,” he answers immediately, and his gaze on her doesn’t falter, steady and sure. The volume of his voice drops to somewhere just above a whisper, his tone still rich and thick as honey, shot through with ragged emotion. “If I seem unsure it’s because it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted _anyone_ in my life. I wasn’t expecting to find that here. Or you.”

She leans toward him, lips touching his before she has time to think about it, the reaction instinctive and complete. Hand rising to touch his cheek, and his mouth is warm against hers, kissing her back, lingering taste of coffee bitter and sweet upon his lips.

“Neither was I,” she whispers, drawing back to look at him. He’s beautiful, eyes reflecting the candlelight in shades of gold and brown, but more than that, he’s honest. Sweet and strong and honest and he could wreck her heart in a thousand different ways, but she doesn’t care. She welcomes it, whatever may come. 

“The Commander of the Inquisition and the Inquisitor. That will have people talking.”

His mouth curves in a hopeless smile, and he sighs. “You wouldn’t believe how quickly gossip spreads through the barracks.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I would rather my—our—private affairs remain that way. But if there were nothing here for people to talk about, I would regret it more.”

“Dorian knew before lunch time today.”

He chuckles, sound rolling into his words, “I’m not surprised.”

“I suspect kissing on the battlements didn’t help,” she says with a smile.

“Probably not.”

“But…” she shifts her shoulders away from him, face angled toward him. “We’re not on the battlements now.”

“No, we aren’t,” Cullen agrees, leaning in, eyes focusing on her lips before they flutter and close.

The door across from them flies open, a messenger breathing in and out with the strain of having run quite a distance to find them.

“This had better be good.” The magnitude of Cullen’s reproach is a feeling she shares.

“I… I’m sorry, Commander.” The messenger looks back and forth between them. “I have a message for the Inquisitor. I was told it must be delivered with all haste.”

She sighs and holds out her hand. “Give it to me, then.”

The messenger hands the slip of paper to her, bowing before he dismisses himself, hurrying out the door.

She reads the words and exhales in disappointment. Any other time, she’d be happy to hear from Hawke.

“What is it?” Cullen asks, and she hands the message off to him.

“When do you leave?” he asks, after a moment.

“To meet him in time? In the morning.”

“So soon?” His tone reflects his disappointment. “I’d hoped we’d have more time.”

“So did I." She shakes her head. “But duty calls.”

He sets the message aside, and then reaches out, taking her hand as he gets to his feet. “Then I suppose we’d best make the most of tonight.”

He leads her out into the night, along the battlements beneath the stars, stopping at an indeterminate point. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks, looking up at the night sky, fingers tightening through hers.

“It is.” Constellations spread out in concise points, everything else written in between. 

She moves to sit, then, fingers tugging at him, wanting to pull him down alongside her.

He follows her, sits, cross-legged next to her, turning and asking like he really wants to know, “Have you… have you ever been… involved with a human, before?”

“No. But that doesn’t matter.” She leans into him, fingers squeezing his, head resting against his shoulder. Tickle of bear fur against her cheek, and he nudges back against her.

“I’m glad,” he all but whispers.

She smiles and turns her head, lifting her face as she kisses him.

  
  



	18. On Dark Wings

Crestwood reminds her too much of the Fallow Mire; darkness, pelting rain and undead everywhere, and none of this has to do with why she came here. Hawke is on his way, but she does have a bit of time before she needs to meet with him. If she can stop the flood of undead in the meantime, she will. 

She breaks down the door to the keep, Solas, Cassandra and Varric behind her. Their enemies are too spread out for her to use her pull of the abyss, so she goes to her fire abilities instead. Booted feet slipping on the stairs, wet stone and rain sluicing down in waves, and they fight their way inside, she and Solas taking turns casting barrier on everyone nearby. The response they encounter is sluggish and the keep falls easily into their hands. She raises the flag, because apparently that’s how humans make their mark, and the Inquisiton’s people are _fast_. They’re already setting up as she heads into the bowels of the keep, passing by the barrels of ale, out the door to the left.

In the old tavern, she lets the intruding lovers go on their own, and Cassandra huffs out her disapproval while Solas folds his arms and looks pleased. Sometimes, she thinks she knows them, and then sometimes, like now, she feels like she doesn’t know them at all.

The machinery in the room isn’t broken, setting her hands against the gears and pushing, turning. Even from where she is, she can hear the dam let go in a rushing flood. It leaves Old Crestwood revealed like old, yellowed bones, brittle and weakened, but still there.

They make their way through the rotting, waterlogged town, deeper into the ground, until they find the rift. One, two, three, four waves, and she’s at the ragged end of her abilities, spinning and turning, slamming her staff again the ground, casting a fire mine beneath her feet. And apparently her rift mark isn’t enticing enough to cross _that_ barrier, because the demons circle around it, never crossing into its range.

Cassandra cries out for help, Solas hanging on by a thread, Varric lying unconscious on the ground beside her. She kneels, reviving him, stone against her knees, and she rises.

Magic thrums through her, song like a chorus through her head, blood rushing through her veins. Power surging and she doesn’t hesitate; lifts her hand, palm upward, magic flowing from her, green energy turning the demons to ash.

They are done. She is done.

Fingers extended outward, power pulled from her body, closing the rend between this world and the next, darkness falling in the aftermath. 

“How did you…?” Varric starts to ask.

“Apparently it’s what I do.” She flexes her hand, and her smile is fragile. “Ask Cassandra and Solas.”

Varric huffs out a laugh, turning his head to the side. “The weirdest shit happens to you. You know that.”

It’s true. On the one hand, she’s glad he doesn’t seem too bothered by the power of the mark, and she’d be willing to let it go at that. But on the other, this isn’t the first time he’s said that, and she really doesn’t understand. 

“You know, I read ‘The Tale of the Champion’,” she says, sitting down on the wet stairs—Creators, why is everything here so wet? “Kirkwall is on a thin spot of the Veil.” Her fingers fumble to find a healing potion. 

“There were crazy Templars and blood mages everywhere—mages assembling undead women out of body parts, blood mages turning into gigantic monsters made of dead bodies.” Cork tugged from the glass vial before she drinks, feeling the magic work through her. “Sandal’s random, coherent, scary predictions. Red lyrium haunted houses. Trips to the Fade. Qunari invasions. Depraved, perverted demons pretending to be nobles. Possessed mages blowing up Chantry’s. Knight Commanders turning into lyrium statues.”

“Most of those were singular, not plural.”

“I’m aware,” she acknowledges, getting to her feet. “But Kirkwall was a clusterfuck served up with a side of fuck all and no fork.” She pauses, head tilting before she adds, thoughtful, confused, “Keeping with the metaphor, I’m not sure it even had a _plate_.”

“That’s… actually a fair point,” Varric remarks. “Still doesn’t seem as weird as all this, sometimes.”

“Let me know what you think when we get to the end,” she says with a wan smile.

“If we ever _get_ to the end.”

“My thoughts, exactly.”

*

She leads them through the tunnels, up the ladder, through the mechanized door—

The sun is shining. The sun is shining over a rift, and she has no patience for anything it sends out. Fire mine. Pull of the abyss. Immolate. Staff firing and Cassandra takes out the Arcane Horror with one last swing of her sword. She and Solas dispel the majority of the second round, entire group taking down the rest.

*

The mayor’s gone when they arrive in the main town, and she guesses she isn’t really surprised; she’d put the pieces together along the way.

*

There’s a message waiting for her when she gets back to camp. Three days it took her to travel here on the back of her mount, and this raven’s been waiting a while. 

_\--Inquisitor,_

_I’ve dispatched soldiers to the area to search for supplies to speed you along your way._

_I hope this message finds you well. There are many here who pray for your safe return. Come back to us, soon._

_Cullen--_

Cullen. Just his first name, not Commander. It’s careful, almost cordial, as she supposes a written message should be, and this is all still so new between them. But she thinks she hears everything he’d wanted to say. She misses him and worries about him, too.

She takes a few minutes, considering her response.

_\--Commander,_

_My thanks for the soldiers’ help. Crestwood is safe from the undead and we go to meet with Hawke and his Warden friend this afternoon._

_We’re all well and safe. I think often of those back in Skyhold. Tell everyone I’ll return as soon as I can.--_

She thinks for a long time about how to sign it. It’s not an official communication or report, but she’s grown so used to signing everything as Inquisitor Lavellan, and he _did_ address her as Inquisitor. She decides she doesn’t care; signs her first name and blows on the ink, watching it dry.

She rolls up the message, writing ‘Commander’ on the outside and seals it in the tube on the raven’s leg, then sets it free of the tether and watches it climb into the cloudless blue sky, body winging westward.

*

The mouth of the cave where they meet Hawke is still dripping rainwater, sandy earth excreting water around her boots with every step.

Hawke seems delighted to see her, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles.

“Careful, Hawke. I hear the Inquisitor’s spoken for,” Varric teases, and she can practically feel the looks of surprise Solas and Cassandra send her way. She’s not sure Varric knows anything for sure—they haven’t talked about it since the garden—but it’s slightly gratifying to know that not _everyone_ knows. 

“Wised up, did he?” Hawke asks with a knowing grin and she smiles back. “I told you he would.”

The good humor of their mood doesn’t last long as they meet with Stroud and hear what he has to say. Her history training taught her a great deal about the Grey Wardens, so she understands even before Stroud explains how serious it is that the Wardens are all hearing the Calling. That they may be using some sort of blood magic to stop future Blights is even more distressing, and she fervently hopes it isn’t true. Her people have specific views on the subject, and while she’s aware that the Dalish views can be somewhat sheltered on certain things—as can humans—she’s never read of a recorded case where blood magic worked out well. 

Of course, that could be a case of who has been writing the histories, but Hawke’s alarm is enough to convince her most of what she’s read is true. 

She parts ways with Hawke and Stroud, promising to meet them in the Western Approach as soon as she can. 

She knows there’s a High Dragon problem in the area, but she’s pretty sure they’re not qualified enough to deal with that threat yet. Besides, the Grey Wardens are the more immediate concern.

Skyhold is on the way to the Western Approach, which is good, because they’ll need to resupply for a journey that long. Fast as the Inquisition’s people are, Caer Bronach isn’t set up for that yet.

They set up camp in Three Trout Farm for the night; the four of them huddled close around the fire while she reworks the leather binding on the grip of her staff, tightening it back down. Cassandra is stitching up the leather on the inside of her gloves, Varric regaling them with tales of his time at The Hanged Man while Solas watches on, seeming interested. The mood is warm and companionable, Cassandra perhaps distracted by her work enough that she doesn’t sigh heavily at Varric’s outlandish stories, and for a moment, she’s grateful for these people in her life. They may have their problems, they may still surprise her with their reactions sometimes, but they’re all sane, good people at heart. People she trusts.

She thinks back to the day she’d met them all, how strange they’d seemed, her convinced she’d be dead before it ended. And yet, here they are. 

It seems unlikely, but she’s glad of it.

In the morning, she’ll send another bird ahead of them back to Skyhold, letting all of her advisors know they’re returning. It will be a brief return, but at least she’ll get to see Cullen before they set out again.

She finally retires to a tent and snuggles into her bedroll, wishing the ground outside was dry enough for her to sleep beneath the clear night sky. She falls asleep imagining what it’ll be like to be in his arms again, even if only briefly.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in chapters recently. Life's been busy, but I should be back to posting more regularly now.


	19. Part of the Reason

They reach the stables at Skyhold by mid-morning, and she leaves her red hart to Master Dennet’s care with a final rub just above and between his eyes. She’s becoming more and more attached to him, even named him. Rellor doesn’t mean anything in elven, but it’s the name that spoke to her during hours spent riding him. She likes to think he told her his name, and he seems to like it when she whispers it to him, nuzzling against her cheek.

The stairs that lead to Cullen’s office catch her eye, and she gazes at them wistfully. But she’s three days road weary and covered in dust, which is better than being soaked through with rain, leather in her robes creaking every time she moves. Better, but just barely.

It’s not so much that she cares if anyone sees her this way, just, if she’s going to be spending time up close and personal with Cullen, she’d rather be clean for that.

She supposes she should stop in at the war table first after getting cleaned up—there’s undoubtedly all sorts of business that needs taking care of and the sooner she gets to it, the better. 

The messenger she spots is a dwarven woman she’s seen around Skyhold--Mareska, she identifies herself when asked. She sends Mareska to gather her advisors to the war room and gives her a time to have them arrive. 

She needs a bath, and she isn’t sure why Skyhold hadn’t come with more glazed ceramic tubs, given that there are no streams nearby to bathe in. There are gushing waterfalls aplenty outside that would crush a body to death, but nothing suitable for bathing. There’s a tub in her room now, that she’d requested, and it’s luxurious indeed after she casts an immolate spell on it, steam rising from the surface as she sinks into it, muscles relaxing, head tipping backward to rest against cool ceramic.

Someone is knocking at the door of her quarters, two levels down. Two levels down, which gives her some time, but given the lack of privacy she seems to be afforded, not as much time as she’d like. They’d go away, if she had her way. At least for a bit. But more likely, they’ll open the door and barge in, calling out for her from the downstairs hallway.

She pulls from the hot water reluctantly, reaching for a towel to pull around her body, and fine, if they want to disturb her when she’s only just returned, they’ll have to deal with the state of how she’s not very dressed. 

Water dripping from her body as she marches down the stairs, not even bothering to make an attempt at smoothing back the portion of her hair that isn’t braided, tightening the towel around her body and sighing before she opens the door.

“Can I help you?” she demands, door not even all the way open yet. Her eyes snap up to find Cullen standing there. Dressed in full armor and wide-eyed as he looks her up and down once.

“I… I…Inquistor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” Gaze falling down and to the side, and she can see his cheeks flush pink.

Fenhedis. She hadn’t meant for… she’d hoped to scare off an overeager messenger. She hadn’t been prepared for _Cullen_ to be here, to see her like this.

“Cullen. I… didn’t expect you. I thought you were a messenger.”

“I, ah… I see. I mean—I don’t _see_ literally,” he insists, still not looking at her. “I mean, I did, but not—”

Creators. She’s so torn between letting him out of his embarrassment and enticing him further, twisting on the precipice of both. She very briefly debates inviting him in, but she’s not sure they’ve reached that point quite yet. Not that she doesn’t want to—she really, _really_ wants to. 

“It’s all right.” She shakes her head. “I was annoyed at being interrupted. I thought you were a messenger…” she sighs, realizing how silly it sounds now, “and you’d be put off by my state of undress.”

Cullen lifts a hand toward his face, clearing his throat. “I’m not sure ‘put off’ describes how they’d feel.”

Well, then. _And how are **you** feeling, Commander?_

“I… I didn’t mean--” He sighs. “Maker. I heard you’d returned and I--”

“Thought you’d stop by,” she finishes for him, understanding. 

“Yes. And I should go… now.” 

He starts to turn away and she steps forward into the doorway, fingers squeezing at the top of her towel. “I’ll… see you after the war table meeting?”

He stops, head turning not quite far enough to look at her over his shoulder. “Of course.”

“Good,” she says and smiles, and in the flickering firelight of the Hall, she swears she can see his lips curve in an answering smile.

*

She closes the door to her quarters, shoulders falling back against the hard wood. Well, _that_ was awkward.

Still, he had stopped by to see her as soon as he could’ve. Maybe his schedule had allowed… or maybe he’d blown off his schedule because she’d returned. 

It doesn’t matter; she’ll talk to him in just a little while.

For now, she has a bath to finish.

*

She still has a bit of time before the war table meeting, and she spends it doing other things that need to get done; dropping off the latest mosaic pieces she’d found with Gatsi, stopping in the garden to gather the latest blooms of blood lotus, and checking in with Vivienne.

When she swings open the double wooden doors, they’re all there, gathered on the other side of the table, and she smiles to see Cullen, finds him looking back at her.

“Inquisitor, we were--”

“Eagerly awaiting your presence,” Leliana cuts in, smoothly, her voice light and laced with knowing amusement, “some of us more than others.”

Well. It’s clear Leliana knows about their exchange at the door of her quarters just a bit ago.

“I wasn’t…” Cullen stumbles for words. “I mean I _was_ … bu--we have work to do.”

“Of course,” Leliana agrees, all smiles.

Cullen shuffles his feet, focusing on the table, and it’s completely adorable. 

It doesn’t surprise her that Leliana knows. She wouldn’t be a spymaster worth her salt if she didn’t. 

“All right, then,” she says, eyeing the table. Sure enough, there are new missions tagged on the map, and she sets about assigning them various issues.

*

When they break from the meeting, Cullen lingers, and she walks to him, fingers lacing through his as she turns to face him.

“So about earlier…” she says.

He dips his head, looking down at her feet. “I… am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She lifts her hand, fingers touching just beneath his chin, turning his face upward. “I would have stopped by to see you first but… I thought cleaning up before I did that… might be nicer.”

The smile on his face is fragile. “I... would have been happy to see you, either way.”

She doesn’t know how he does this; walks right through her walls, just like he’s always been there. How he’s done it from the moment she’d met him.

The confines of the room feel suffocating, and she just wants… to be with him. “I could… use some fresh air. Could you?”

*

They walk the battlements in the opposite direction than normal from his office. Through the doors and turning the corner until they sit where the battlements of Skyhold fall downward into rubble, calves dangling over the edge, heels kicking against the stone. It’s quieter here; less soldiers patrolling, less people who could interrupt.

“I have plans to rebuild this section,” Cullen says. “But it’s on the edge of a huge drop of a waterfall into a river. The only thing that could get up here easily is a dragon, and it wouldn’t care about walls anyway.”

Such a Commander. “Always thinking about the mission.”

“Not always.” Hazel eyes search hers from the side. “I… you… How have you been? How was Crestwood?”

He always asks.

She shifts her shoulders. “It was wet, and it was a pain in the ass. But I had a clear goal.”

“Clearing out the undead, meeting with Hawke.” He nods agreement.

“Well, that, yes.” Because that much is true, even if it’s not the whole truth. “But also,” she glances at him sideways, “what I had to come back to.”

He looks downward and away. “I... got your message. I thought—but I wasn’t sure…”

“Be sure,” she whispers, fingers catching beneath his chin, turning his face, lifting her mouth to kiss his.

“You have so much to do…” words breathed out against her lips, hands closing around her cheeks, fitting to her skin like they’ve always been there. “I don’t want to be a distraction.”

“You’re not,” she whispers back. “You’re,” she breathes, wanting to tell him the truth, but it feels like too much. Trembling butterfly wings in her belly, fear clutching at the words, but he deserves to know. “You’re part of the reason.”

He draws back slightly, eyes widening fractionally with amazement as he looks at her, and her heart skips a beat, fearing she’s said too much. 

“I am?” he asks.

She nods, not trusting herself to speak, and the smile that blooms on his face is bright and warm as the sun. So surprised he matters to her, and it makes her happy—breaks her heart.

“Good,” he whispers and kisses her.

It’s a long, lingering kiss, fingers of one hand sliding up into her hair, other resting on her cheek, angling her face gently, tongue swirling sweetly against hers, and she feels it all the way down to her toes, arms winding around his neck, pulling him in closer, deeper. Fingers trailing down from her cheek to her throat, one fingertip resting against the thin skin above her pulse, and she can feel her heart speed up, wonders if he feels it, too.

So lost in him, kissing up into his mouth, and she doesn’t know how this goes, if it will last, if it will end—and she doesn’t care. Heat rushing through her blood, and she wants more, but right now she doesn’t care if she ever gets it. Having him here, like this, kissing her like she’s the only thing that exists, that’s enough. Skin tingling where he touches her, tongue twisting slowly, wickedly around hers, and he’s going to kill her, slowly but surely.

If that’s how she goes out, then so be it.

He draws back, pressing his lips to hers, hands still on her throat and in her hair. “I’m sorry… I…”

“Don’t be.”

“All right,” he says, and smiles.

  
  



	20. Surrender Honestly

It takes almost two weeks to get to the Western Approach, and there’s a message waiting for her at Lost Spring Canyon camp. It’s long been detached from the raven it arrived on, bird handler handing the tiny tube off to her.

There’s a white, wax seal around the cork, its unbroken expanse giving her pause. A wax seal usually means important official business, for the Inquisitor’s eyes only. But those seals are always red, never white.

She twists the cork, wax breaking, flaking off in a tiny shower of snow. She recognizes the handwriting on the message immediately, corner of her mouth curving upward.

_\--Inquisitor,_

_I hope the Western Approach finds you well._

_This bird was missing you. I told her you were on very important business and you’d be back soon, but she still seemed sad. I thought I’d send her for a visit._

_Be safe, and return to us, soon._

_Cullen--_

Creators. Yes, of course; the _bird_ missed her. One hand rises to her cover her mouth, lips pulling in a smile beneath, and she closes her eyes briefly.

Every time she thinks she couldn’t adore him more…

She walks to the bird cages, recognizes the raven as the same one he’d sent to Crestwood by the single white feather on the crest of her throat. 

She sits down by the potions table to write her reply. It flows easily into ink, guided by his words.

_\--Commander,_

_We’ve arrived well._

_Thank you for sending her. I was missing her, too. I so often have important business that it’s difficult to feel like I spend enough time with her._

_Take care of her. Tell her I’ll be missing her greatly until I return._

She signs her name, almost overwhelmed by how much she misses him, wishing he could be here with her right now. 

Sighing, she rolls up the message, labels it and puts it into the tube. A white candle is easy enough to come by, and she seals the cork closed before she gives it back to the handler.

“Make sure it goes out on the same raven,” she tells him, indicating the bird in question.

“Yes, Your Worship.”

“Important message?” Dorian inquires.

“Nothing to worry about.”

“I’d guess not, judging by the size of the smile on your face.”

“Shut up,” she chuckles, nudging her shoulder against his.

*

The Western Approach is nothing like the wetness of Crestwood had been, dry desert spreading out before them; no golden hues of sand she’d expected. Everything here is orange, grit settling against her skin. She resists it at first, hands wiping at her face, then understands she needs to let it cover her because it’s never going away.

The structure where she finds Hawke and Stroud is one of the most interesting she’s ever seen; black, jagged spikes jutting from its base, reminding her of the Emerald Graves, where the same sort of spikes had jutted from the ground in a circle beneath a rift. An ancient ritual site, Stroud had said, and she wonders what it was used for. The statues that tower above it are impressive, as well, but she’s not here to admire the architecture.

If anything, Hawke and Stroud seem more certain than ever that blood magic is being used for nefarious purposes. She doesn’t want to believe it—after all, the Grey Wardens are supposed to be heroes. She’d been a teenager when the Hero of Ferelden had saved the world, and still she’d felt like an awestruck child when she’d heard the stories of the elven woman who’d saved the world, killed an Archdemon and walked away.

She steels herself for the potential truth, entering the archway with Hawke and Stroud, Dorian, Blackwall and Varric following behind.

*

Lord Livius Erimond is an arrogant asshole who likes the sound of his own voice too much. Varric and Dorian both call him a ‘tool’ and she has to stifle a snort despite the gravity of the situation. The truth of the blood magic is disheartening, but she remembers the future in Redcliffe; that demon army had to have come from somewhere. Now she knows.

Erimond seems thrown by her knowing, but it doesn’t stop him. So sure he has the upper hand over her, voice gloating, red energy flowing from him to tear at her body.

She falls to her knees, power being pulled from her body like slow drops of blood, and she knows this—remembers how Corypheus tried to pull power from her—and fuck him, fuck this. She’s not a puppet bent to the will of Corypheus and especially not to any of his lackeys. Pushing to her feet, and she draws back what he’d taken, throwing a burst of power back at him, gleeful as he falls to the ground in shock.

It isn’t the full power of the mark, and he’s damned lucky it isn’t. She would crush him, if she could.

He retreats, like the coward he is, leaving them to fight the demons. Two rage demons, and Fenedhis, she’d brought Dorian who also only casts fire spells in addition to necromantic ones. Thankfully, Hawke is there, and he makes use of magic that, on the surface, isn’t much different from hers, using magical force to throw and crush their opponents, but there’s something more primal about it, and some spells she’s never seen before. 

Varric puts a crossbow bolt through the throat of the final rage demon, and it melts into the ground in a pool of fire that dissipates. She’s left feeling less than triumphant over their victory.

Grey Wardens possessed by demons, and they were supposed to be better than this.

The heat of the desert rises up around her, sunlight rippling off the waves, and the reality of a sixth Blight looms in the future. The Grey Wardens have made terrible choices, but that hardly matters. The Inquisition has to stop this. Put this right. They have to save the Wardens and stop Corypheus.

On this, they all agree.

*

She stops in at Craggy Ridge camp, sending out a raven with word of what they’ve discovered and that they’re on their way back to Skyhold.

Almost two weeks to get here on their mounts, only to turn around and head back.

“Ready to saddle up, Varric?” she asks with a wan smile. She knows he hates it. He’d only learned how to ride a horse after he’d joined the Inquisition. Not much use for horses in the city, he’d said. He still doesn’t seem to like them much.

“Can’t wait,” he replies, all sarcasm. 

*

Two weeks from desert to the Frostbacks, and when they finally arrive back at Skyhold all she wants to do is sleep in her own bed. Beds are something she’d become very accustomed to very quickly after becoming part of the human world, far superior to and much more comfortable than sleeping in a bedroll on the ground. She misses the stars overhead sometimes, but after a month of sleeping underneath them, she’s ready for a bit of comfort without them. 

The moons are but slivers in the night sky, pale slices surrounded by scatterings of stars. Skyhold is quiet in the darkness, everyone either in bed, working late or drinking at the tavern. It might even be so late that even Cullen has gone to bed.

A month… a whole month since she’s seen him, and there’s no way she’s not going to check or detour anywhere else first, no matter how dirty or exhausted she is. She climbs stairway that leads to his office, feeling at odds with herself; stomach tingling with anticipation, chest tightening with trepidation. She’s so excited to see him, and yet… it’s been a month. What if things have changed? What if it’s weird between them after so long apart? They’d only spent a short amount of time together as a couple before she’d had to depart.

She swallows hard, trying to push her conflicting feelings down as she swings open the door.

She nearly walks right into a messenger who’d been about to leave, the young man’s face reflecting his surprise at her sudden appearance.

“Inquisitor,” he greets—rather loudly, she thinks—with an incline of his head, and she nods in return, stepping through the doorway to one side, allowing him to leave.

Cullen’s office is very nearly dark, only a few candles lit, burning low in their sconces. In the dim, flickering light, she can see that the chair behind his desk is pushed back to one side, its seat piled with thick, leather covered books. The desk seems to be covered in its usual array of papers and books that echo with his presence, but other than that, the room is empty.

 _He must be asleep._ Disappointment floods through her and she sighs. But it doesn’t make any sense, because the messenger had been in here with the door closed. Unless… maybe he’d come in through one of the other doors and passed through.

The wood above her creaks, and she looks upward, over—

A pair of bare feet are climbing down the ladder from the room above, loose, gray pant legs pooling at the tops, longs legs coming into view, and then the bottom of a loose shirt. The pants are bit more snug at the top, she notices, cinched low around his waist, and as he lowers one foot to the next rung, she catches a flash of bare skin, stomach muscles rippling.

She bites down against her lower lip, teeth sinking deep into the tender flesh as he finishes his descent.

“You’re here,” he notes, and his hair is marvelously disheveled, one errant curl curving against his forehead.

He’s dressed in light cotton pants and an off-white linen shirt with a deep “v’ neck, laces that would close it dangling useless at their ends, his eyes still blinking away sleep, hands and feet bare.

He’s adorable and sweet, sexy as hell and the closest to naked she’s ever seen him, and she’s just… so happy to _see_ him. Wants to run to him and close her arms around him, pull him in, breathe in the scent of him.

“The messenger told me you’d arrived,” he says, taking a step towards her. “But I didn’t think… I could catch you in time at this hour. And then I heard him greet you.”

It makes sense then, why the messenger had spoken her title so loudly, letting Cullen know she was here. It also explains why his clothes look so hastily pulled on, like an afterthought.

_Creators. He sleeps naked. Or close enough. ___

__“I… I wanted to see you,” she admits._ _

__“I’m glad you did,” he says, eyes meeting hers before glancing away. “I apologize for…” he motions down at his clothing. “I was… in a hurry.”_ _

__How can he not know how gorgeous he is, dressed in flowing clothing that still clings to him in all the best places. How can he feel self-conscious, when all she wants is to wrap her arms around him, kiss him until she can’t breathe?_ _

__“I don’t care,” she whispers. Covered in road dirt and still in her mage robes, she takes a step towards him, arms falling to her side, open and welcoming. And no, that isn’t enough. She wants him to _feel_ how much she doesn’t care, crossing the space between them in a few steps and damn the consequences. Forearms sliding underneath his arms and pulling, and she’s never felt him so close, never felt so much of his body against her, cheek pressed against his chest, and she can feel the beating of his heart, sound through her ear, reverberating to her bones._ _

__His arms encircle her, hands riding up the curve of her spine, pulling her closer. One arm closing around her waist, other moving to slide fingers along her cheek, lifting her face to look at him._ _

__“I….” his eyes glance off hers several times before he finally breathes in deep, looking at her directly. “I missed you.”_ _

__She knows. Creators, she knows. The weeks of aching without him… Fingers rising to touch his cheek, barely brushing against skin. “I missed you, too.”_ _

__He kisses her then, lips meeting hers gently, arm around her waist crushing her close. So sweet, so intimate, mouths opening, tongues colliding, twisting and twining, fingers winding upward and through his hair, closing against the crown, pulling him down into her._ _

__“We should…” she breathes, kissing his mouth again. “We should move to the couch.”_ _

__“You should sleep,” he whispers, breath so close to hers, lips rising to kiss her forehead. Arm around her waist tugging her in the direction of the couch. Pulling her down against his body, and he feels so _good_ against her, strength and comfort, and she wants more but she’s content with this; the way his hand strokes through her hair._ _

__She falls asleep with her cheek against his chest, breathing in and out with the rhythm of his heartbeat.__

  
  



	21. Couldn't Keep My Eyes Off You

She wakes mostly in the same position she’d fallen asleep in, eyes fluttering open to the gray light of dawn filtering in through the windows, Cullen’s fingers fitting loosely against the curve of her skull, other arm falling across her shoulders, holding her close. Warmth of his body against hers, and she wants to stay right here, wrapped in his embrace. 

If only they had that luxury. 

But the sun is rising, and that means messengers and meetings. People walking in on them like this.

To the void with them, as Cassandra would say. She’s here. They’re here. And there’s no reason they shouldn’t make the most of it. She’ll have to leave soon enough, anyway.

She lifts her face from his chest, chin rising, lips kissing his throat along the line of his pulse.

He wakes instantly, breathing out her name, fingers tangling in her hair, arm around her shoulders tightening, pulling her closer. Hand sliding around her jaw, closing there and kissing her with that languid, wicked curve of his tongue, and she breathes out hard, hands sliding up the musculature of his chest, palming around his throat, closing around the back of his neck.

He draws back and leaves her breathless, looking up at her with those steady hazel eyes.

“Did you sleep well?”

Not ‘Good morning’. Not something suggestive, even though she’s spread across him like second skin. He really, honestly, just wants to know if she slept well. Coherency takes a moment, and the fact that _this_ is his first question after opening his eyes…

“Better than I have… in longer than I care to think about,” she whispers, smile curving against his mouth.

“Good,” he breathes, arms wrapping around her, and he seems just as content as she is to lie here together.

She draws back a little to look at him. “How have things been?” she asks.

“Busy as ever. There’s always plenty of work to be done. But dull. It… it isn’t the same without you around,” he adds, smiling at her.

She smiles in return, understanding. “I know the feeling. Well,” she adds, “not the ‘dull’ part.”

“I should think not,” he chuckles. 

“I don’t think I’ve had a dull moment since this whole thing began. And here I didn’t think I was going to survive that first day. I certainly didn’t think I’d ever be here, like this,” she says looking at him and grinning. “You were the definition of unimpressed when you met me.”

“I, ah,” his eyes track to the side, embarrassed. “I was very focused that day. A lot of people...”

“I remember.” She nods. “You said, ‘I hope they’re right about you. We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.’”

“Maker. I did say that, didn't I?” he asks, sounding disappointed in himself.

“It's all right,” she tells him, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You did lose a lot of people, and I was a complete stranger to you.”

“Still, I could've been kinder.” He shakes his head, looking at her wonderingly. “I don’t know why you were interested in me after that.”

She’s not sure how much of the truth she should tell him, if it would sound strange that she’d been interested before she’d even spoken to him—to basically admit that she’s been interested all this time. So easy to talk to him, tell him anything, except for how she feels about him. It’s stupid and maddening. “I… I was interested in you before that.”

Cullen's brow furrows in confusion and he tilts his head to one side as he looks at her. “How could you have been?”

“In the battle that day…” She thinks back to her torn chest, right arm dangling as if on a string, not able to shift the staff to support her, needing to slam it against the ground the second her mana returned, countdown between her and the demon. “I was badly wounded, close to dying. There was a demon bearing down on me… and you appeared out of nowhere like a knight in shining armor, chopped off its arm and stabbed it in the face as it was about to kill me. I'd… have been dead, if not for you.”

His eyes widen and she could swear his face goes a shade paler as he breathes out sharply. “Thank the Maker I was in the right place at the right moment.”

She nods, thinking about what the world would be like right now if she _had_ died. “Thedas would be in a lot of trouble, if you hadn’t been.”

“I…” He glances away and then meets her eyes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I wasn’t thinking about Thedas.”

“Oh,” she breathes, staring at him, stunned. Silence stretches between them and she can’t think of a single thing to say, stupefied by the implication of his words. 

“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers out, looking away from her. “I shouldn’t have said—”

She grabs his face and lunges to kiss him, cutting off his words, tongues sliding slick and tangling as he opens to her, the end of whatever he was going to say lost, and she doesn’t want to hear it; wants him here like this, kissing up into her, hungry as she is.

Hands on either side of his face, fingertips resting along his jaw as she pulls back, looks him in the eye. 

“Don’t ever be sorry for telling me you care,” she tells him, dipping to press a kiss to his mouth, drawing back to meet his eyes again. “Not ever.”

“All right.” He’s gazing at her with something close to adoration, mouth smiling that crooked smile, and he’s beautiful. Beautiful and sweet, strong and sleep tousled and more than she’d ever dared hope for. Her heart swells inside her chest until she feels like it might burst, the feeling too big, and she doesn’t have the words to express it—isn’t sure words could do it justice.

He reaches up, tucking a loose braid back behind one of her ears and smiles at her. “At Haven, after your first attempt to close the Breach… I was… interested in you as well.” 

She doesn’t know how to process this, wonder filling her, because if she’d even _thought_ he’d—surely he’s lying, making this up as they speak, and she’d believe that if he wasn’t looking her in the eye, steady and sure. “You... were?” 

Voice, sweet, rich honey, as he tells her, “Honestly, I couldn't keep my eyes off you. But we'd only just met.” 

“I…” and she doesn’t know what to say except to finish the sentence. “I had no idea.”

“Really? I thought I was embarrassingly obvious,” he says with a low chuckle.

“That’s how I felt.” Creators, how she’s felt for him, how she’s wanted this.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks with gentle curiosity.

For the stupidest, most ridiculous reasons, honestly. “I… didn’t know if you were interested. We’d become such good friends… I thought maybe that’s all it was.”

“That’s…” Surprised understanding dawns in his eyes. “That’s what I thought, too.”

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head back and forth fractionally. “So we’re both idiots.”

“So it would seem,” he agrees, chuckling again. His fingers touch her cheek as he sobers. “I’m… glad you finally said something.”

“So am I. Though if Varric hadn’t pushed me I don’t know how long it might have taken me.”

“I suppose I’ll have to thank him, then.” He blinks and glances away, expression turning thoughtful. “If Varric writes a book about this, do you think I’ll be in it?”

She laughs. “Of course you will. You’re an invaluable part of the Inquisition. Plus, I’m the main character, and you _are_ my boyfriend, after all.”

He looks back to her, blinking slowly, slow smile curving his lips. “Boyfriend?”

“Isn’t that what people traditionally call it when someone is having a romantic relationship with someone of the male persuasion?” she asks with a teasing smile. “Unless…” she goes on, smile fading from her face, “you don’t want--”

“No,” he cuts her off, abrupt. “I…” his voice softens and gives her one of his almost shy smiles. “I like it.”

“Good,” she whispers. A thought occurs to her, then, born out of the wonder in his response, and it seems a ridiculous thing to ask, as comfortable as he is, lying here with her—this is surely not the first time he’s been intimately involved with someone. Still, she can’t seem to help herself. “You have… I mean… _Have_ you ever… been someone’s boyfriend before?”

He chuckles, and then shifts beneath her, and Creators, she’s been lying on top of him with all her weight for hours now. 

“Here,” she says, sliding to one side of him, closest to the back of the couch, hand cupping his shoulder and pulling. He follows the movement, and then they’re lying on their sides, face to face, mirroring each other as they wrap one arm around each other, forearms of the other, resting against the couch, pressed together, hands tucked up beneath their own cheeks. They still hold each other close, chest and knees and shins molded against each other, but not as close as they’d been a moment ago. Somehow, it feels even more intimate, only being able to look into each other’s eyes, rest of the world distant, far away, unimportant. 

“Once, a long time ago,” he says, picking up the conversation thread. “It was before the Circle tower fell… it didn’t end well.” He pauses, taking a breath before he goes on, “I had a few… relationships… in Kirkwall, but I wasn’t myself during that time. I wasn’t in a place where I was looking for something… potentially permanent.” 

The implication that he’s looking for something more permanent now hangs in the air between them, and she’s content to leave it there. A moment of silence, and then he asks, as if he isn’t really sure he should, “What about… what about you?”

“Well, I’ve never been anyone’s boyfriend,” she replies with a grin. “But…” she slowly sobers as she considers the answer to his question. “I… did think I fell in love once. We were both young and both stupid. It lasted less than a year, and it ended.” Clumsy, beautiful, stupid first love, and for a summary, that will do. “The only other relationship I had was short-lived and ill advised.” Storms of angst, sex like thunder, and that will _definitely_ do for a summary. “I’ve had… occasional… encounters since then.”

“Occasional encounters?” he inquires, eyes narrowing slightly, corner of his mouth tugging upward.

The curve of his lips and the amused glint in his eyes suggests he knows exactly what she means, but he’s asking anyway, damn him, teasing her, and fine, two can play that game, she thinks, smirking as she answers, “I’ve never taken vows against physical temptations, either.”

“Good to know,” he whispers, low chuckle rolling into the words, and he slides a hand up into her hair, pulls her close, lips meeting hers. Sweet catch and drag of their tongues against each other, slowly circling at first, teasing and tasting, deepening until she can feel her blood rush through her veins, dizzying spikes of desire through every nerve. 

She gets her palms up around Cullen’s face and angles his jaw, kissing him deep, feels him answer, hand moving to cup her face, breathing out hard through his nose as he kisses her back. She can feel the warmth of his skin through his thin clothing, the flex of his muscles against her as his hand glides down her arm to touch her hip, hand closing around it, thumb resting in the hollow, fingers squeezing lightly.

He pulls back what feels like far too soon, kissing her lips several times before he draws away, opening his eyes to look at her. His mouth reddened and wet, hair a glorious mess, and what she feels when she looks at him is more than physical want, more than the sweet, precious feeling that threatens to burst from her chest. It’s huge and all-consuming and not like anything else she’s ever felt.

“Cullen,” she breathes, uncertain of what she means to say next, only knows that she has to say _something_.

The door to his office opens then, a voice beginning to speak. “Commander, I have the reports for--” The man’s voice breaks off, and she supposes he must have sighted them on the couch.

Cullen closes his eyes and sighs, then twists his upper body, turning his head to look over his shoulder at the man. “Give me a moment,” he demands, surly.

“Yes sir.” The door closes so quickly it would be funny under other circumstances.

Cullen lies back down, looking at her with mild regret. “I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“Was there something you wanted to say?” he asks, voice soft.

Her heart’s still beating too fast, and her nerves still feel shaky, but the moment has passed, and she isn’t sure what she’d been going to say in the first place. “No. It’s all right.” 

They have a war table meeting and an attack on Adamant Fortress to plan. Hawke and Varric will be waiting for them all outside the war room soon, if they’re not already. 

“Is something wrong?” Cullen asks, frowning lightly.

“No,” she sighs. “I was just thinking about the day, planning the attack on Adamant and…”

“Does it worry you?” Hazel eyes on hers, and she can see the concern for her in them so clearly.

“No. I just… wish…” She smiles and reaches out, stroking a curl back from his face. “Wish we could stay here longer, like this.”

“As do I,” Cullen whispers, giving her a small smile, fingertips touching beneath her chin, thumb brushing her lower lip.

She presses a tiny kiss to the pad of his thumb, and he moves it away, replaces it with his mouth an instant later.

  
  



	22. Here Lies the Abyss

At the war table, they plan their strategy for the assault on Adamant Fortress. It takes half the day to nail down all the details, and then everyone scatters to make their preparations.

She has her own preparations to make, but she stops in to see Cullen briefly before she begins. He’d been agitated at the war table, though he’d said little beyond discussing how the battle should unfold.

There are maps scattered across his desk, his hands planted flat against one as he leans over it. He lifts his face when she enters, glancing at her before he shakes his head. “First the Templars, now the Grey Wardens. Both devoted their lives to fighting evil. Now they serve it.”

She can hear the disappointment in his voice, see the revulsion written in his features, and she can’t help but agree. “They were so desperate to destroy their supposed enemies they didn't see the one standing right in front of them.”

He pushes off the desk, rising to his full height and folding him arms across his chest as he regards her. “A mistake I've made before and wish not to repeat,” he tells her, his tone stringent. “The Inquisition must serve as an example. We must stand where others fall.”

“We will,” she assures him.

A mistake he’s made before? He must be speaking of Kirkwall and Meredith. Had he really wanted to destroy mages? 

She feels understanding bloom inside her, thought crystalizing in her mind with sudden clarity.

He sees too much of himself in all of this. The red Templars, the Grey Wardens… the choices they’ve made are ones he fears he might have made, himself, in another time and place.

She doesn’t understand the details, the how’s and why’s, but she knows without question that it’s true.

“Cullen.” She walks around the desk, up beside him, and he turns to face her. “Are you all right?”

His brows rise in vague surprise, expression softening. He sighs, the edge gone from his voice as he says, “I will be, when we put a stop to this madness.”

“We will stop it,” she promises, lifting her hand, fingertips resting against the cool metal of one of his folded forearms.

“I know.” He nods, last of the tension draining from his posture as he uncrosses his arms, catching her hand in one of his, lifting their interlaced fingers to touch his cheek. “The next few weeks will be busy. I fear we won’t have much time together.”

“We’ll steal what time we can,” she tells him.

He smiles, then, and bends to kiss her mouth. Slight pressure of his lips against hers, and she feels the warmth of them work their way through her.

They don’t have time for more, both of them have work to do, so she leaves him with a final smile, fingers untangling last, fingertips sliding against each other, pulling apart as she steps backward and turns, heading for the Undercroft.

*

Adamant Fortress stands in the Western Approach on the very edge of the Abyssal Rift, a yawning chasm so deep no one knows how far down it goes—though from what she’s read, some believe it goes all the way to the Deep Roads. It takes them almost a month to reach, people mostly on foot and animals pulling siege machines.

She sees Cullen often enough, but almost always in professional situations, and they find little enough time to themselves, stealing a moment here and there late at night to sit and talk together, kissing all too briefly beneath the stars. At least he’s here, with her, for once, and she can go check in on him, lay eyes on him any time she wants, even if she can’t have much of his time for herself.

The morning before the battle, everyone gathers to go over the plan one last time, and when it’s done, he dismisses his soldiers, telling them he needs a moment to finalize some things with the Inquisitor. She can see knowing looks exchanged between some of the soldiers, the way they smile before they turn away. 

When the tent is empty, Cullen looks at her from behind the war table, not moving to approach her, and perhaps this is about business after all. She walks around to join him, moving within a few feet of him before she stops. 

“Before we go in, I wanted… I wanted to say…” He hesitates, glancing down at the war table and then back to her. “I know you can take care of yourself, but whatever the Grey Wardens are planning to use blood magic for…” he shakes his head. “Maker knows what they’re doing in there. Please… be careful.”

“Always,” she promises.

A faint smile creases his face, and he steps forward, reaches out, fingertips grazing her cheek, thumb tracing along the curve of her cheekbone. She reaches up, catching his hand and pressing it against her face. “Cullen, if--”

“Don’t,” he whispers. “Just be safe.” He pulls her into a quick, crushing kiss, searing and sweet and all too brief before he releases her, leaving her standing there breathless and wordless as he turns and walks from the tent.

*

The trebuchets fire flaming bombs across the darkness of the night sky, their trajectories converging, striking the fortress and exploding as one. A gaping hole appears in the stone defenses of the fortress, and a cheer rises from the soldiers. From her vantage point, she can see the hail of flaming arrows launched in response, the ladders of the Inquisition army rising up through the fiery storm, undaunted.

Men begin to scale the ladders and swarm the battlements, soldiers marching with the battering ram up to the formidable gates. The battle rages above while the men begin the battering ram assault, and with their efforts, the doors splinter, shattering open after three great thrusts. Their soldiers rush the entrance, swords gleaming amidst the fire as they cut down the Grey Wardens that surge to stop them.

Resistance defeated for the moment, she follows behind them, stepping out of the smoke and rubble through the open gate. 

Cullen strides up from behind her, all business now. “All right Inquisitor, you have your way in. Best make use of it. We’ll keep the main host of demons occupied for as long as we can.”

“I’ll be fine,” she tells him. “Just keep the men safe.”

“We’ll do what we have to, Inquisitor,” Cullen replies without hesitation, voice hardened steel, and she doesn’t doubt that they will.

They’re interrupted by a scream as a body comes falling from above, and look up to see a hunger demon screech before it glares down at them, its grotesque body cut from sharp light and shadow.

Cullen tells her to clear the resistance on the walls so the soldiers can cover her and then turns, jogging quickly back to oversee the battle outside. She sends a silent prayer to Mythal to keep him safe, and then takes a breath and turns, looking at her companions. 

Blackwall was a given for this mission, but she’d also brought Varric because he and Hawke are used to fighting as a team, and Solas because their differing powers of ice and fire makes one of them a threat no matter what kind of demon they may encounter.

They all nod their readiness, and she pulls her staff from her back, ready to confront whatever enemies may be waiting.

*

They fight their way through the battlements, clearing them, and then down to the heart of the fortress, interrupting the blood magic ritual in progress.

She could appeal to the Grey Wardens by reminding them of their history, but she decides to appeal to their reason instead—surely some of them know this is wrong. Hawke and Stroud join her in her appeal, and Clarel seems to see reason at last.

Erimond turns on them then, tapping his staff against the ground. From above comes the flapping of leathery wings, a deafening screech from slavering jaws.

Corypheus’ dragon. The Archdemon. Fenedhis.

Clarel blasts Erimond with magic and commands the Wardens to help them fight, chasing Erimond toward the battlements.

The Archdemon flies overhead, dousing them in the energy of its breath weapon, and she’s just thankful it’s not interested in eating them all—yet. They’ve already fought two Pride demons getting here, but this one is particularly vicious. She swears she can see its cuts beginning to heal as soon as the Wardens slice into it, and it takes them far longer than it should to bring it down.

They pursue Clarel upward, the dragon circling in the sky above them, occasionally skimming the battlements to breathe dark energy all over them. 

She comes running around the corner at top speed, feet almost sliding out from underneath her, and there—

Ahead she can see Erimond and Clarel facing off, Erimond throwing magic at her as she stalks toward him without flinching, magic bouncing off an invisible barrier. Clarel knocks him on his ass, sends him curling into a useless ball, about to deliver the final blow when she and her party come running up.

Flap of enormous, leathery wings and the Archdemon touches down, snatching Clarel between its savage jaws and taking flight. Landing atop the fortress, it throws her broken body to the battlement, and she bounces, skidding across stone.

Incredibly, she’s still alive.

The Archdemon lands before them, talons digging grooves in rock as it slinks toward them, tail lashing at the air. They back toward the end of the battlement that rises over the Abyssal Rift, nowhere left to go, and she sees Hawke lift his staff, hears Varric cock Bianca.

Clarel looks like a miniature doll, crawling beneath the Archdemon’s body, weak voice carrying on the wind.

“In war, victory.” Clarel rolls over onto her back. “In peace, vigilance.” She raises her hand, the Archdemon coiling its muscles to lunge and—

Electricity explodes from Clarel, purple-white bolts tearing the air asunder, and she can smell the cooking flesh of the Archdemon, its screams of rage deafening. Already committed to its leap and it can’t stop, goes hurtling past them as they scatter to get out of the way. Body sliding off the end, claws digging furrows into stone, and it slips, massive body falling into the Abyssal Rift and tearing away the end of the battlement with it.

May it fall all the way to the Deep Roads, she thinks.

Dust rises as the ground trembles, stones falling in the wake of the dragon’s damage, and she stumbles, staggering forward. From the corner of her eye she sees Stroud go down and she spins, reaching out to grab his hands, help tug him up over the edge. They run, world rumbling and shaking around them, and she strains, stretching, pushing herself to move faster, heart thundering in her ears and she can barely hear it above the noise around her.

Stone beneath her foot shivering and twisting, struggling to hold, and then ground gives way. Huge chunks of stone break from the battlement, falling around them.

 _Mythal, watch over me_ , she prays, flailing against the open air, and she’s falling, so fast, it’s all happening so quickly and it can’t—it _can’t_ end here, not like this. She can’t die.

Wind rushing through her hair, whistling in her ears, and somewhere, far down below the smoke and fog, the ground rises to meet her. 

Neriandel. Taelasan. Her brothers’ faces, so clear in her mind, Cullen looming larger above both of them, and she can’t. She won’t leave them. Won’t let Corypehus win.

She will not die. She _refuses_ to die.

Certainty of it burning in her heart, raw anger and pure determination quicken through her blood, hardening to resolve inside her, and she stretches out her arm, opening her palm as if to catch herself. Green light flares to life, crackling energy across her skin, mind narrowing to a single purpose, and she lets magic flow from her, fingertips curling as she forces its shape to her will. 

The air below ripples in response; green filaments stitched all through it for an instant before they rip open, tearing a hole in reality. 

Blinding green light fills the world, and she falls through it, consumed.

  
  



	23. Let Mine Be the Last Sacrifice

Falling… and then… slowing… falling… up?

She’s moving too fast to understand, and then she sees ground above her, reaching out to touch it—and then she impacts against it, world spinning, flipping upside down, leaving her with her back… against the ceiling? No, the ground.

She’s so confused.

For a moment, she isn’t sure what she’s done. She’d called upon the magic of the mark to save her with the unshakable certainty that it would, and now…

She sits up to find Stroud walking sideways on a rocky growth, and Hawke standing upside down on another. They take a few seconds trying to figure out what happened, and then Solas tells them, unequivocally, that this is the Fade.

They all stand there in the hazy gold-green light getting their minds around that, green mist rising around them, water flowing upside down.

She’d opened a portal to the Fade, and they’d all fallen in. Physically walking in the Fade, and Solas is fascinated, seems almost reverent—certainly completely at home. Varric and Blackwall are considerably less impressed.

All that matters is they’re alive. Someone would have seen her open the portal, someone will know. Someone will let Cullen and the others know they’re not dead. 

Now they just have to get out of here.

*

They’re chasing a spirit that seems to _think_ it’s the Divine, anyway, if it’s not an actual piece of the Divine’s spirit. 

The Fade appears to be made almost entirely of stone; the ground, the strange spikes, the statues that rise into the hazy sky. Stone, water, and what Varric would call ‘weird shit’. Windows and doors that lead nowhere melt at strange angles against fractured buildings, candles burn against unlikely surfaces, never seeming to melt any lower, and then, inexplicably, there will be a completely normal table and chair set up as if in a restaurant, waiting for a customer, or a made up bed. In short, it looks exactly like the future in the Redcliffe courtyard, which makes sense, but the little spots of almost normalcy make it even worse somehow.

Naturally, she has to stop and investigate each one, hoping they might hold a clue to another, faster route of escape than through the Nightmare. Some of them seem to be puzzles that need solving, or at least, a setting that requires another piece, echoes and memories of dreams that have been separated. 

Her own memories return more painfully, fragmented shards with sharp edges that grind together, trying to discover where they fit, and the only satisfaction that comes from any of it is having it confirmed once and for all that she wasn’t chosen by Andraste. She can barely contain the laughter that wants to spill from her when she recovers the memory of scooping up the orb, mark accidentally transferring to her hand. Accidentally. She is, quite literally, an _accident_. She’d thought perhaps there’d been something more heroic to her earning the mark, at least, but no.

The spirit of the Divine—or whatever it is—argues that perhaps the Maker her put her in the right place at the right moment—

_Thank the Maker I was in the right place at the right time._

\--but they don’t have time to debate the probability of divine intervention by a god she doesn’t believe in in the first place.

*

They’ve just defeated another round of spider-demons, or whatever they are, when the Nightmare speaks up in elven. For an instant, she thinks it’s speaking to her, and then it speaks several words even she doesn’t understand.

It’s Solas who responds, leaving her cold, because one word she definitely recognized was ‘harellan’—the Dalish word for traitor. The Nightmare hasn’t called a single one of them by anything but their names. Badgered them and told them they were useless, but always, always addressed them by their names. The demon had clearly addressed someone as ‘traitor’, and Solas had responded.

Traitor of what or whom will have to wait for later. She doesn’t have time to figure it out right now.

*

The Nightmare hits them _hard_ , incapacitating Solas almost immediately, and it’s an indication of how the rest of the fight proceeds. Stroud and Hawke end up stunned for so long that she and her companions have to do most of the fighting on their own, and by the end, they’re bloodied and battered and bruised, Solas leaning heavily on his staff, Blackwall favoring a wound in his side.

They’re out of health potions, most of them too wounded to last long in a fight, and they still have the giant fear demon to contend with. They might be able to… they have regeneration potions left. And then Stroud and Hawke make it plain that one of them is going to have sacrifice themselves if the others are to have any hope of escape.

Stroud or Hawke; she has to decide.

She doesn’t want anyone else to die, tears rising to her eyes. They’ve lost enough people to Corypheus already. Stroud could lead the Grey Wardens, and they need that, now more than ever, but Hawke… she doesn’t know him well, beyond what she’s read and experienced, but he feels like someone she cares about… like her friend. And Anders… what would Anders do without him? 

She is the Inquisitor, and she should make her choice based on what would be best for the world, not on which person she cares about more. But she’s also just an elf with a heart like anyone else, and damn everyone for putting these kinds of decisions in her hands.

The fear demon’s mandibles chitter, clear, viscous liquid dribbling from the length, and there’s no time—

“Stroud,” she whispers, and within her chest, she can almost feel her heart crack, hairline fractures marbling it.

*

She carries grief and rage from the Fade with her, filled with excess energy, and she lashes out with it, green light crushing and destroying the remaining demons in the heart of Adamant with a flick of her hand. The soldiers cheer, but she has no time for accolades, stepping up on the platform to speak.

Hawke tries to convince her to let the humans keep their belief that she works with the blessing of the Maker, but she’s too angry right now to focus on that. A Warden asks where Stroud is and she takes them all to task, voice carrying through the open space and ringing from the stone walls as she tells them Stroud is dead because of them. In the end, she explains that she’s allowing them to stay and help the Inquisition because Stroud believed in them, and in the moment, that _is_ most of the reason. But there’s also the part of her that wants to believe the Wardens can be saved.

Solas sighs his unhappiness, and one of these days she’s going to have to find out just what his problem with the Wardens is, anyway. _And why you answered to ‘traitor’. What about that, Solas?_

Hawke says his farewells and departs to leave for Weisshaupt, and the Wardens swear not to fail her, and then she’s standing there with nothing left to do, rage still seething in her veins, grief a heavy weight in her chest.

Cullen pushes his way through the crowd, jogging up to her, and it’s all she can do to remember decorum, not to break and fall into his arms right there in front of everyone.

“Inquisitor. Are you well?” 

Raw emotion has carried her this far, but the truth is, she’s not well at all. Blood trickles from dozens of small wounds, and her ribs are bruised, every breath she takes an experience in near agonizing pain. Still, she firms her mouth into a line, nodding. “Fine, Commander.”

“Are you certain?” he asks in a lower tone of voice, and she can see the worry in him. His hand rises a few inches from his side, fingers twitching as if he wants to reach out, help her.

Fenedhis, if he keeps it up, she really will lose the last of her emotional armor. She would drink a regeneration potion to heal herself and lay his worry to rest, except she’d given them all to Stroud, shoving the entire strand into his hand before they’d run for the portal. “Fine. Just… a health potion, if you have one?”

“Of course.” He produces one from the cloth draping from his armor and offers it to her, green liquid swirling inside the glass. She reaches out to take it and loses her balance, nearly stumbling forward, and Cullen catches her instantly, other hand coming up to grip her elbow and steady her.

“Inquisitor,” he breathes, his voice a near whisper, so much concern laced through the syllables of her title that it hurts to hear it. She meets his eyes for an instant, and she can’t hide from him, knows he can see the pain in her, the hurt beyond the wounds on her body. 

“Let me,” he starts to say, and she shakes her head.

“Just the health potion, Commander. I’ll be fine.” She needs him not to be touching her right now, needs him not to be looking at her with such doubt in her words.

He doesn’t release her completely, fingers still touching her elbow as he hands the potion to her. She tears out the cork and swallows it down, feeling the magic beginning to work inside her. Wounds closing, aching in her ribs easing, and it still hurts a little, but she can deal with it. She reaches down deep and finds a slight smile for him. “See? Good as new.”

She can see the reluctance in him to release her, but he does. She can also see that he doesn’t believe her at all, but he isn’t going to press the issue right now. He has his own duties to tend to as Commander in the aftermath of the attack, as does she. For now, she just needs to be able to hold together through them. There will be time for more, later.

Still, he lingers, as if wanting to say more, and she can almost see him swallow it down. “I will… see you later, then.”

She nods in reply, and he hesitates a moment longer before nodding in return and stepping back, turning to walk through the people still milling about the main courtyard. 

She watches until he fades from view and then steels herself for the work yet to be done.

 

*

 

She is fading, flagging, the night coming close to dawn when she kneels in the sand outside his tent, hand shaking as she reaches to draw back the flap. They spent several hours sleeping together on a couch one night, but she’s never been inside his room or his tent, and normally she would question the wisdom in it, but tonight she can’t. She needs him.

He breathes out her name, neither surprise nor admonishment in the sound--as if he’d been expecting her—and she fairly launches herself against him, arms closing around the back of his neck and hugging him tight. His arms wrap around her shoulders and pull her close, one hand rising up the back of her neck to catch a loose handful of hair, fingertips rubbing against the sensitive curve of her skull. He lifts his face to press a kiss against the crown of her head and doesn’t say a word; just holds her.

Most of their bodies are separated by the bedroll, but her cheek rests against the thin linen shirt that covers his chest, sound of his heartbeat steady and reassuring. Knots in her chest slowly coming undone, the steel she’d willed into her muscles melting, and she closes her eyes, tries to hold back the flood inside her.

“Stroud,” she whispers, and he squeezes her lightly within the circle of his arms.

“I know.” It’s all he says.

Fractures in her heart splintering, pieces falling free like the hot tears in her eyes, and she lets them come.

She cries silently against his chest, soaking the fabric of his shirt.

In the darkness, he holds her close, and lets her.

  
  



	24. Harellan

The Grey Wardens hold a ceremony for Stroud and the other fallen Wardens the next day, and she has to attend, because she’s the Inquisitor, after all. It doesn’t bring her any sense of peace or closure. She will carry Stroud with her forever.

 _I fear this won’t be the last time you’ll be called upon to make such decisions._ Cullen’s voice in her head, the gentle words he’d spoken to her this morning. 

_You’re the Commander of an army. Choosing between two innocent people… you’ve had to make these kinds of decisions before, haven’t you?_

_I have._

_Does it… does it ever get easier?_

_Never._

When the ceremony ends, she keeps her memories of Stroud’s sacrifice tucked away alongside the memories of the future she saw in Redcliffe castle. 

*

Afterward, she, Solas, Varric and Blackwall ready for the return ride to Skyhold. They’ll be traveling by mounts, well ahead of the army. Cullen will follow in two days with some of his soldiers, leaving the rest of the forces to return on their own. She wishes she could wait two days and travel with him, but it’s more important for her to get back to Skyhold and take care of business there as soon as possible.

Cullen comes to see them off, and she doesn’t care that her friends are all right there—pushes up on her tiptoes and throws her arms around his neck, kissing him soundly and thoroughly. Varric chuckles and Blackwall coughs politely, and when Cullen draws back, his cheeks are tinged pink, but he gives her one of his crooked smiles and lifts one of her hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

“I’ll see you soon,” he promises. “Be safe.”

“You, too.”

He gives her one last smile before he leaves, and when she turns around, Varric looks amused and smug, Blackwall is wearing an expression of mild surprise, and Solas… Solas seems… disappointed? Disappointed that she’d lower herself to be with a human, probably—not that Solas thinks much of her people to begin with. Her own brothers probably wouldn’t approve; Nerian and Tael had never understood her interest in humans.

It doesn’t matter. 

“Everyone ready?” she asks.

“Ready to get the sand out of my smallclothes?” Varric inquires. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

Their first night camping, she and Varric share a bottle of wine by the campfire. After Solas and Blackwall retire to their tents, Varric talks about Stroud and what a good man he was, and how he won’t be the last hero to fall to Corypheus.

He will be if she has anything to say about it.

*

The next day, she comes across Blackwall chopping firewood while he laments the actions of the Grey Wardens, and later that night, Solas practically takes her head off over their actions—especially her having let them join the Inquisition.

_I gave the mages a chance to prove themselves after they aligned with Tevinter, Solas. I took in Templar knights after all their fellow Templars turned into monsters. Are you really surprised?_

She wants to say it out loud, but she doesn’t bother, leaving the conversation at the end of uneasy peace between them.

*

About a week into their trip, they make camp in temperate area, and she plays Diamondback with Varric, firelight flickering as it illuminates her cards, bottle of wine sitting between them, nearly empty. 

She reveals her hand and Varric lays his cards face down, reaching for the bottle. “Well. That’s enough losing for me for one night,” he remarks, and then tips the bottle up, throat working as he drinks down the last of the wine.

“Oh, come on, Varric. I’m on a streak, here.”

“I know,” Varric nods, wiping at the smile on his lips as he puts the bottle down. “Which is why I’m getting out now.”

“Fine,” she sighs, only half-pretending to pout.

“See you in the morning,” Varric says, getting to his feet, and she calls out good night as he turns to walk to his tent.

She gathers up the cards, shuffling them idly, and Solas rises from his place across the campfire, walking over and settling into the empty space Varric left behind.

“If you wish to continue playing, I would not be averse.” It’s the first time he’s made a friendly overture since their conversation about the Grey Wardens—not that he’s been cold. They just… haven’t spoken much.

Blackwall is sleeping, but she still remembers his words from months ago. “I’m on a streak, but… Blackwall warned me about you. I’m not playing you for coin _or_ clothing.” 

“Ah, yes.” He chuckles as if remembering, and then lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug. “We could play for fun, if you like.”

She’s had enough wine that she feels pleasantly warm, fuzzy around the edges, and she really likes Solas most of the time, she really does. He has a certain charm about him that sets her at ease, warmth that belies his often cool, occasionally prickly exterior. 

Still… it’s been a week and she can’t forget the voice of the Nightmare in their minds. Sinuous and insidious, the way it had called out ‘traitor’… the way Solas had answered.

“Ma nuvenin,” _As you wish_ , he replies to her long silence with a tilt of his head, and she can see him gathering himself to rise.

She reaches out, fingertips barely touching his forearm, other hand still holding the deck of cards. “Las ar sahlin elvarel.” _Grant me in this moment, longer_. The words feel clumsy upon her lips, rusty, and Solas cuts his eyes at her through the flickering firelight. His eyes are a close to colorless gray-violet during the day, but in darkness they are nearly transparent, catching and reflecting everything around him, and she can see flames wreathe in a dance around his pupils. Strange, enigmatic creature and she will never know the whole truth of him. 

Perhaps she can know just enough. Just this.

“In the Fade,” she almost whispers, withdrawing her hand, and Solas turns, focusing on her completely. Firelight twisting in his eyes and he would be intimidating if she didn’t already know something of him. “The Nightmare called someone harellan. ‘Traitor’. And you answered. Why?”

“Because it was speaking to me,” he answers, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world. He takes a moment, takes a breath and then breathes out, glancing down at the space between them before meeting her eyes again and continuing, “I have made mistakes, Inquisitor. I was young, and full of arrogance, certain that I knew the right path.”

She has heard this admission in his conversations with Blackwall; hot-headed, he had described himself, and it’s not nearly as difficult to imagine as Solas _or_ Blackwall might think. That Solas is passionate has always been clear, even if he has wisdom to temper it, now. “And you… betrayed someone?”

“I did what I thought was best. Foolishly thinking I knew better. What happened…” he shakes his head with true regret. “I could not have been more wrong.”

“What did you do?” she asks.

Solas sighs, face dipping to one side. “I made the wrong decision. I would change it now, if I could. Let us leave it at that.”

And well… she doesn’t really need to know the specifics, does she? They all have pasts. It’s none of her business. He has become her friend, and she trusts him. She has to, despite the misgivings the Nightmare had fostered. Solas has never been anything but an ally to their cause. He’s the one who had educated her on demons and the Fade, the one who had assuaged her fear of becoming a rift mage, one of the few who has fought by her side to put the world right again.

Whatever he’s done in his past, he seems to be trying to make up for it here and now, and she can’t afford to discount that.

She turns the deck of cards over in her hands, and then extends it toward him. “You deal.”

*

They run afoul of some red Templars along the way, but they make it back to Skyhold no worse for the wear.

The sun is bright above the courtyard as she emerges from the stables, eyes straying to the stairs that would take her to Cullen’s office. He isn’t here, yet, and it saddens her, to think of Skyhold without its Commander. Leliana represents the ears and eyes of the Inquisition, Josephine the mind, and Cullen is the hand—the raw force that cuts through opposition. Reassurance on such a physical, visible level, and he gives hope to more than he knows.

Still, the people of Skyhold rejoice in her return. For the most part. She _did_ invite the Grey Wardens here, after all. There are some who don’t trust them, and she knows, she understands. Hopes they will exceed those people’s expectations, live up to the shining example the Wardens should be.

Hope is all she has for now.

*

She spends most of the next two days signing papers and attending meetings to reassure nobles of the addition of the Grey Warden’s to their cause. Josephine manages to incorporate some dress fittings in between, and she tries not to fall asleep against the mirror while several women flit around her, measuring and sewing.

She needs a good night’s sleep, she finally decides, when the sun sets on the second day, pushing aside her seamstresses and telling them she’s done. They scatter around her like flower petals, and she pulls from the dress, leaves it there for them to work on if that’s what they decide to do. They can do it without her, she thinks, as she climbs the stairs to her room. They have enough measurement information at this point.

Her bed is made, blanket and sheet pulled back from the pillows, and she regrets that it’s empty for only a moment before she falls into its embrace.

Pillow pulled between her arms and halfway under her belly and she misses him, misses the solid, reassuring feel of him against her. She’s only lain with him like this twice… that she misses it, aching in her like the need for home…

She shouldn’t.

She’s faced more than this without the comfort of him. And she will, again. 

She can live without him.

She just hopes she doesn’t have to.

_Mythal watch over you, Cullen._

She doesn’t believe in the Maker, but she’ll send up a request anyway, to whoever might be listening.

_Please bring him home safe._

  
  



	25. Fallout

She dreams of him; a tower rising from the middle of a misty lake, forbidding, black silhouette cut from moonlight, Cullen caught somewhere within. Dark, trapped, and he can’t move, Desire demon lifting her chin, slender curve of her throat chuckling with laughter, talons caressing his cheeks, pulling his face upward. 

Leaning in, lips close to his, pulling in a slow smirk as it whispers promises, features blurring into the face of someone human, hair raven black and shorn close to the sides of her head, short-cropped length of the top curving into a single curl along her forehead, brown eyes and dark red lips, fingertip catching beneath the point of his chin.

“You’re not her,” Cullen breathes, shaking his head. 

He turns from its touch, yanking away, snapping back to spit in its face. 

“And still you fight,” the demon remarks, seeming impressed. “No matter. You will be mine.”

It caresses his face, fingers stroking through his hair like comfort and care, mocking and cruel. Templar armor sheathing her, gleaming silver, and he wants—

_Wants._ Wishes she was the woman it pretends to be. But he knows it isn’t, turning his head away and closing his eyes. 

The demon’s face ripples, bones rearranging themselves into new shapes. Cheekbones pulling higher, tanned skin growing lighter, tiny, slightly darker pinpoints of color rising to freckle the surface, rounded eyes thinning into almond, edges upturned, warm brown irises to ice-blue. Mouth flushing full, jaw and chin sharpening, features flowing fast as mercury, and still, she knows in the first instant it begins. Recognizes her face within the shifting landscape before it solidifies.

Horror rips through her like lightning, rooting her where she stands.

“Cullen,” it whispers, and that’s _her_ voice, deep and husky, pleading with him. “Look at me.”

He flinches, recoiling from the sound, hands closing into tight fists where they’re bound behind his back. 

Body twitching to move, and her feet are sewn to the ground, stitches ripping slowly from stone as she tries to push forward. Slow, too slow, and he’s as far away as he ever was, beyond her reach, beyond her help—no. No, she can’t leave him like this—

Muscles pulled taut, straining, held still, and—

She sits bolt upright in bed, sucking in a breath.

A dream. It was just a dream. 

It feels real, though. Blood and bone and to her soul, and the feeling won’t leave her.

*

Her sleep is fitful for the next hour, and she keeps returning to what she’d seen in the moments before she’d woken, over and over. Dreaming of him with a demon wearing her face… Is there something in her that believes she might be bad for him? Dreams don’t always mean anything, but this one had seemed so… vivid. Real. Visceral. It feels like _something_. But she doesn’t know what.

When the sun finally starts to rise, light creeping into the room, she rouses herself from the bed with the hope of relief. Maybe she’ll leave the nightmare behind her, lost between the sheets, move on without its weight.

She had a good seven hours of unbroken sleep; that’s enough.

*

She knows he won’t be back yet. He wouldn’t have ridden during the night without a good reason, and it’s barely past sunrise. Still, she climbs the stairs to his office and lets herself inside. The room is silent and darkened, candelabras empty, and she’d thought it would bring her a sense of comfort to be here, as close to him as she can right now. But it really doesn’t.

_He’s fine. You know he’s fine. It was just a dream._

Mentally, she knows that. But the worry relentlessly gnawing in her chest doesn’t seem to understand.

She takes a deep breath, pushing the feeling down, and walks out into the light of the rising sun.

*

The day has barely started when she finds Cole and Solas in the courtyard, arguing, fervent.

Cole wants Solas to… bind him?

“Why would you want Solas to bind you?” she asks, baffled.

“So I’m safe,” Cole declares, turning his back on her as he walks away, past Solas. He paces the courtyard like a cornered animal, and she wants to go to him, help him, hold him—something.

“You should bind me, or someone else could. Like the warden mages… and then I’m not me anymore.” He stops walking, lowering his head, voice frenetic, “Walls around what I want, blocking, bleeding making me a monster.”

She understands his fear, but…“A mage using blood magic could do that to any of us.”

“That’s why you should bind me. Then have Solas bind, you, too,” Cole is frantic, imperative as he turns on her.

Ask Solas to… bind her? She blinks, caught off guard by the very idea, and then glances at Solas, who meets her eyes briefly before glancing at the ground and then back to Cole.

“There has to be some kind of middle ground.” She’s sure of it. “A way to help you without binding you.”

Solas speaks then, telling them of a Rivaini amulet that might help. 

“We’ll find this amulet, then,” she says, determined as she looks into Cole’s pale blue eyes.

“Good,” is all Cole says, walking off in the direction of the tavern.

Which leaves her and Solas standing in the courtyard, looking at each other, both of them still thinking about Cole’s suggestion to have Solas bind her, if the awkwardness between them is any indication. Something as intimate as that… the connection between them would be…

She can’t even think about it.

“I should...” she starts to say.

“Of course,” he says.

They turn as one and walk in opposite directions.

*

That’s just the beginning of her not being prepared for everyone’s reactions to the outcome of the Grey Wardens’ actions.

Cassandra, so torn within her faith, questioning the truth of Justinia’s presence in the Fade, and she doesn’t have any easy answers. A fragment of her, a spirit imitating her? Either way, there might have been part of her there.

Dorian, who honestly asks how she is, and she’s guilt stricken by Stroud’s sacrifice, can’t lie to him about it. And for all that he cares, he needs her to know that word of what happened can never spread; people cannot be tempted to try to walk physically in the Fade as she did; as Corypheus did, once.

Iron Bull, who, for Qunari reasons she doesn’t understand, wants her to beat the shit out of him in an effort to overcome his fear of demons.

Blackwall, disillusioned and struggling to keep believing in the good the Wardens are supposed to stand for.

Sera, who doesn’t understand any of it, except for the loss of Stroud.

She doesn’t have any easy answers for any of them.

*

It’s midday when she’s in the middle of dealing with another nobleman’s concerns about the Grey Wardens.

“The Grey Wardens made mistakes, no one is questioning that. But the ones who remain have fought against those mistakes. They deserve a chance to prove themselves.”

“Like you believe the mages do?” he asks, voice dry.

She’s had enough of this bullshit the last couple of days to last her a lifetime.

“Yes.” She smiles at him, predatory edge to the expression as she leans across her folded arms on the table. “Just like that. I’m not sure if it’s escaped your notice, but I _am_ a mage.” 

He flusters, mouth open, about to speak when the messenger enters, door creaking on its hinges. The messenger excuses himself for interrupting and then tells her that Cullen has arrived, coming in off a morning ride, and gone straight into his office, and really did she expect any less?

She thanks the messenger and resolves herself to conclude her business here before going to see him.

*

When she finally gets to Cullen’s office, he’s surrounded by half a dozen soldiers, and there are two messengers waiting by the door. He seems a bit paler than usual, light lines where his eyes crinkle written deeper into the skin, and he shouldn’t be working after a two week ride. He should be resting in a real bed. But she knows there’s nothing she could say that would change his mind. He probably feels like he’s been gone too long as it is, trying to catch up on all he’s been needed for.

She should leave him to it.

He glances over, catching sight of her, and pauses, lips curving in a slight smile. She presses two fingers to her lips, kissing them, and then turns them outward toward him, smiling back before she takes her leave.

There will be time for them to catch up later. The important thing is that he’s back, safe and whole.

She has plenty to keep her busy until later tonight.

*

It’s long after dinner when she finally returns, night wind whipping at her hair as she opens the door. It is dark within, as it usually is at night, the candles burning low and fat, dripping red wax. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust, and then she can see that the only person inside is a female messenger.

“Inquisitor. If you’re looking for the Commander, he’s gone to speak with Seeker Pentaghast.”

She nods at the messenger, wondering what he needs to discuss with Cassandra, and whether or not she should be there. No one had sent for her, but still, it could be important. She can check on them at least.

She crosses the courtyard again to the armory where Cassandra makes her quarters on the upper level. The sound of hammer against metal has ceased for the day, but the light of the forge still glows within, flickering orange through the windows that casts long rectangles of light on the grass.

She can hear their voices before she opens the door, both of them speaking louder than normal, arguing about… something. She can’t quite make out all the words, but she’s not going to stand here trying to eavesdrop when she could just walk in and ask.

She opens the door and Cullen breaks off in the middle of a sentence, stepping back to face her. He shakes his head once when he sees her, and then looks away as she walks up, refusing to meet her eyes as he cuts between her and Cassandra, one shoulder turned toward her.

“Forgive me,” he says, his tone somber, and she turns to watch him leave, not understanding.

“And people say _I’m_ stubborn,” Cassandra remarks, disgusted. “This is ridiculous.”

Before she can ask, Cassandra turns to look at her, arms folded across her chest as she asks, “Cullen told you he’s no longer taking lyrium?”

Is that what this is about?

“Yes, and I respect his decision.”

“As do I. Not that he’s willing to listen. Cullen has asked that I recommend a replacement for him.”

What? Why would he—

“I refused. It’s not necessary,” Cassandra continues, gesturing with one hand. “Besides, it would destroy him. He’s come so far.”

She’s inclined to agree. She can’t imagine the Inquisition without him. She blinks, trying to wrap her head around it, and then asks, “Why didn’t he come to me?” 

Cassandra reiterates the agreement she and Cullen had made, and she understands that, truly she does, but she still doesn’t know why he wouldn’t have—

“And he wouldn’t want to…” Cassandra hesitates, “risk your disappointment.”

Oh. 

“Is there anything we can do to change his mind?” she asks.

“If anyone could, it’s you.” Cassandra speaks of the suffering of Templars and her certainty that Cullen can do this, bidding her to go to him and talk to him.

“I will,” she assures Cassandra, and Cassandra nods once, then turns away.

_I most certainly will. Right now._

  
  



	26. Perseverance

She’s never run so fast across the courtyard as she does tonight, taking the stairs two at a time up to Cullen’s office. 

The door is open, which she takes as a welcome sign and she slows, calming herself before stepping forward—

A wooden box smashes into the wood of the open door, barely missing her as it shatters, metal implements clattering to the ground. Surprised, she turns from the sight to look at Cullen.

“Maker’s breath. I didn’t hear you enter. I--” His voice is shaky, urgent in apology, and then he takes a breath, rising to his full height and shaking his head. He won’t meet her eyes as he takes a step forward, focused on the ground. “Forgive me,” he says, sounding disappointed in himself.

She couldn’t care less about the box. “Cullen, if you need to talk…”

“You don’t have to--” The last word comes out in a grunt of pain, upper body bending forward, hand catching the corner of the desk to keep himself from falling, one foot moving to steady his weight. He breathes out heavily, making a gesture toward her with his free hand, and then turns to rest both hands on the desk, upper body hunched over it.

“I never meant for this to interfere,” he says, still refusing to meet her eyes.

“Are you going to be all right?” Creators, he must be in so much pain.

“Yes,” he breathes, eyes rising and still not quite finding hers, and then sighs, immediately adding, “I don’t know.”

He leans downward a little more, and then pushes himself up from the desk. “You asked what happened to Ferelden’s Circle,” he says, voice seeming to gain strength even though he’s still swaying slightly on his feet. “It was taken over by abominations. The Templars—my _friends_ \--were slaughtered.”

He turns, taking slow, limping steps toward the arrow slit, head hanging low as he rubs a hand across his forehead. He stops in front of it, turning a shoulder toward her as he makes a sharp gesture at the air. “I was tortured,” he goes on, continuing to turn until he’s standing sideways in front of the arrow slit. “They tried to break my mind, and I--” he breaks off in a humorless chuckle, looking outside, and then shakes his head, lowering it until his chin nearly touches his chest. “How can you be the same person after that?” he asks, voice rough with anger.

“Still,” he goes on, looking at the wall, before he begins to turn back toward her. “I wanted to serve. They sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight-Commander, and for what, hm?” he asks with a bitter edge to his voice. Turning, he gazes out through the arrow slit again, agitated. “Her fear of mages ended in madness. Kirkwall’s Circle fell. Innocent people died in the streets.” He turns again, finally looking at her for the first time. “Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that life?”

She can barely stand to see the bitterness, the distress etched into his features. “Of course I can,” she says, stepping toward him to the edge of the desk. “I--”

“Don’t,” he cuts her off, sharp. “You should be questioning what I’ve done.” He walks toward the bookcases, fingers of one hand brushing down the line of his nose.

She understands that’s he’s upset, and clearly he doesn’t want to be comforted. She plants her hands on her hips and turns her head to watch him, letting him finish.

“I thought this would be better,” he says, beginning to pace back and forth in front of her. “That I would regain some control over my life,” he steeples his hands in front of his forehead and then throws them outward in frustration, “but these thoughts won’t _leave me_.” The guttural emphasis he places on the last two words is so filled with pain that it nearly breaks her heart just to hear it.

He touches his hands to his forehead again and then lowers them, opening his arms in an expansive gesture, continuing to pace. “How many lives depend on our success? I swore myself to this cause.” His hands close into fists, pushing out from his chest and then back again in time with his words. “I will not give less to the Inquisition than I did to the Chantry. I should be taking it!” He spins, anguished and frustrated, one fist lashing out to punch the bookshelf. A wooden figurine falls to the floor, and he whispers, voice rough, “I should be taking it.”

She’s never seen him like this. He’s always so in control of himself, so strong. The pain must be unimaginable to make him lose his calm like this. And yet, here he is, thinking about the Inquisition instead of himself. Disappointed in himself for feeling he’s not serving as well he could be. How like him not to stop for one second to consider his own wants and needs.

“This doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition,” she tells him, stepping up beside him. “Is this what _you_ want?”

He turns to look at her, nose curled in a snarl—and then he exhales, expression smoothing, fist still resting across the top of a book relaxing. “No,” he breathes.

He stands up straighter, wrist falling from the bookshelf, brows pulled into a knot of consternation. “But…” he goes on, meeting her eyes, his voice calmer now, lower. “These memories have always haunted me—if they become worse, if I cannot endure this…”

She reaches out, putting a hand on his chest, and he focuses on her instantly, eyes widening a fraction with surprise. Did he think she would be afraid to touch him after losing his temper?

“You can,” she tells him, letting her strength of belief in him fill the words.

He sighs, closing his eyes momentarily, and then meets her gaze. “All right.”

She holds his eyes for a moment longer, and then lets her hand fall from him, backing up a step. 

He glances about the room, then, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “Would you… ah… give me some time?”

She’d like to stay with him, talk about it more if that’s what he wants, just be with him if not. But apparently what he needs right now is time alone. She supposes she can understand.

“Of course,” she agrees, nodding.

She wants to tell him to take care of himself, to get some sleep, but she trusts him to know what to do for himself.

It feels strange to just leave, but she closes the door behind her, walking along the battlements, arms folded over her chest, hands rubbing her upper arms, more for the sensation of touch than for protection against the chill of the night wind.

She hadn’t had much chance to react to anything that he’d told her—it had all happened so fast, and he clearly hadn’t been looking for her sympathy—but it’s all starting to sink in now. Tortured… they’d tortured him, tried to break him, and she’s filled with useless anger and the need for revenge on demons probably long since dead. The thought of him helpless in the grasp of abominations… Creators, the things they must have done. 

Abominations… possessed mages. She stops cold, staring at the stone beneath her feet as realization hits. Brain turning over, clicking like the tumblers of a lock as pieces fall into place. It all makes sense, suddenly. The way he’d felt about mages once, that he’d treated them unfairly at times in the past, that he still feels mages need protection for their own sakes as well as the sake of others.

Fenedhis. That he can even be in the _presence_ of mages after something like that… no wonder he’d reacted so strongly to her decision to make them allies. That he hadn’t given her _more_ grief about it is astounding.

She turns, putting her hands down on the edge of the battlements over the courtyard, trying to steady herself. It feels like a lot to know all at once, too much, almost overwhelming, and she takes a deep breath, letting the cold air fill her lungs.

It cools her blood a bit, slows her heart a notch, and she gives herself a few moments, trying to rein in her mind.

The fact that he’s trusted in her decisions… not only her decisions, but trusted in _her_ , enough to be in a relationship with her…

She presses a hand to her mouth, eyes closing, and focuses on just breathing; in… hold… out.

This is a lot to think about, and she will, but right now isn’t the time for it. Right now, this is about what he’s going through presently. 

She takes another deep breath, pushing everything else to the back of her mind, and she’s always been good at that in the short term, hasn’t she? If anything, being the Inquisitor has only made her better at it.

And beyond that, there is hope to be found here. That he’d survived, that he hadn’t broken, is a testament to his strength of will. If he could survive that… if he could survive that to _this_ degree, he can surely survive what he’s going through now.

He’ll be all right, and she’ll be here if he needs her help.

Still… she can’t help but worry about him and want to be there for him, and lacking the ability to do that, she isn’t quite sure what to do with herself. She wipes at the corner of one eye with the back of her hand, settling her palm back against cold stone, gazing down at the courtyard.

Light still spills from Herald’s Rest, yellow glow through the windows, stretching out across the grass, faint strains of music carried on the wind.

It’s probably a terrible idea, but it might be better than the sleepless night she’ll be spending in her bed, otherwise.

*

Guitar chords drift on the air as she opens the door, scent of new wood, ale and pipe smoke filling her senses. There’s a couple turning in circles on the dance floor, shoes moving across the polished wood with practiced steps in time to the music, and she sidesteps to avoid them careening into her, smiling at them as they pass.

Most of the tables are empty, but there are still a few people left, gathered here and there throughout. In the left corner of the main room, Varric, Blackwall and Dorian are sharing mugs with Krem and Iron Bull, the latter four laughing heartily at some tale Varric is telling. She smiles to see them enjoying themselves, about to walk in their direction when she stops.

Cullen is alone right now, even if it was by his own request. He’s alone and in pain, and being here isn’t going to make her forget that. Her friends are having fun; she doesn’t want to spoil it for them by being less than enthusiastic. She debates for an instant, about to turn away and resign herself to hours of lying in bed awake, when Iron Bull spots her, waving and calling her over in a bellowing voice that resonates through the tavern.

Well, she doesn’t really have a choice, now.

Bull leans over, grabs a chair from another table and pulls it up for her, motioning for her to sit, and then he cups his hands around his mouth, calling out to Cabot for another round. 

“I…” she stands, awkward at the edge of the table. “I should probably get to bed. It’s late.”

In reply, Dorian pulls her chair closer to his and smacks the seat once. “Nonsense. We’re just getting started.”

She feels warm and welcomed, and she isn’t sure she should. Cullen…

_would want you to be with your friends having fun, not lying in bed all night worried about him._

That’s probably true. Knowing him, he probably feels like he burdened her by sharing this with her, as it is.

“All right,” she agrees, sitting down.

“I must admit, I’m surprised to see you here,” Dorian says. “I thought you’d be with the Commander all night. Lovers reunited after weeks apart and all that.”

She bites at her lower lip, gauging her answer before she says, “He was… tired.”

“Ah, wore the poor man out, did you?”

She grins, rueful, and shakes her head, kicking at the leg of his chair, scooting him several inches away from her. He reaches out, grabbing the back of her chair and yanks her closer again, resting his arm across the top of the wood.

“Well don’t stop there,” Dorian urges Varric as their drinks arrive.

“Yeah, what happened next?” Iron Bull asks.

Varric takes a drink from his mug and looks at her. “You weren’t here for the beginning.”

“Give me the short version, then.”

“I was just telling the story about the time Hawke had to attend a noble party to infiltrate an Orlesian estate.”

“I can’t think of a single way that might go wrong,” she responds, droll, and Varric chuckles.

“So,” Varric says, warming to the subject again, “Hawke decides to fake a bee sting to get the guard to let them inside…”

The story proves to be as hilarious as she expected, and a few drinks later, she’s warm inside the half circle of Dorian’s arm around her shoulders, listening to Iron Bull tell an amusing story of his own, wondering for the millionth time if Cullen’s finally sleeping. It doesn’t make anything better, really, but it helps her get through the evening.

Fortunately, by the time they all go their separate ways for the night, she’s had enough to drink that sleep comes for her quickly.

He’s still her last thought as she falls asleep.

  



	27. More Than All Right

She wakes to the sun spilling through the many windows of her room, and Creators, who thought up this design? Literally almost every surface facing her bed is covered in windows or glass doors. How is she ever supposed to sleep past dawn?

That’s her first thought as she blinks against the light, holding up a hand to shield her eyes, and directly on the heels of that—

Cullen.

He’d asked for time last night, and she doesn’t know how much time he needs. She wants to check in on him, but maybe she should wait?

Fuck that, she decides, throwing the covers aside, setting her feet against stone.

*

She can at least stop by. If he doesn’t want to talk, that’s fine, but at least he’ll know that she cares. That she’s still here, if he needs her.

He’s not in his office, though, which she finds both disconcerting and reassuring. He needs to take some time away, but at the same time, his not being here feels wrong.

His desk is abandoned, maps and documents layered atop it. The center of his control, the center of the Inquisition in some ways, and he has always been devoted to it. So disciplined and focused, and she feels like she understands, now. Given what he’s been through, constructing order in the face of chaos must bring him great comfort.

And yet… he isn’t here. He can’t possibly still be asleep, she knows him well enough to know that.

She walks through his office, through door on the other side, across the battlements and through what she’s beginning to think might be Iron Bull’s bedroom, to the space where they usually meet.

She finds him there, hands pressed against stone, and even from here, she can see his lungs expand and contract, breathing in the very air like it’s precious.

She isn’t even close to him when he turns to look at her.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, voice even and rich, thick as honey as he pushes off the battlements to face her. “When you came to see me…” He lifts a hand to the back of his neck, fingers rubbing at the skin there. “If there’s anything…” He exhales, as if in defeat, turning his face to the side, stepping in that direction, fingertips caressing the skin behind his ear before he lets his hand drop to his side. “This sounded much better in my head.”

His voice, so level and with just that touch of awkward she’s come to adore. He seems like… himself again.

“I trust you’re feeling better?” she asks.

“I…” he glances away for a moment, then looks back to her. “Yes.”

“Is it always that bad?”

“The pain comes and goes,” he admits, looking out across the battlements. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m back there… I should not have pushed myself so far, yesterday.”

“I’m just glad you’re all right,” she tells him, honest, and his face turns toward hers for an instant before he spins all the way around toward the mountains. 

She steps up beside him, and he looks over, meeting her eyes. “I’ve never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden’s Circle. I was… not myself after that. I was angry.” He glances away, shaking his head. “For years, that anger blinded me.” He shifts his weight between his feet, weighing his words. “I’m not proud of the man that made me.” 

“The way I saw mages… I’m not sure I would have cared about you.” Turning his face to look at her again, eyes meeting hers, voice dropping to an emphatic whisper. “And the thought of that sickens me.”

His upper body turns at angle, opening to her. “Now I can put some distance between myself and everything that happened. It’s a start.”

Everything he’s been through, so much pain, and still, here he is, telling her that he cares, acting like he’s only starting to put distance when he’s obviously been working at it for so long. She can imagine the man he used to be, and that isn’t the man who’s standing in front of her. That he could think for a second he _is_ , hurts her. But he has to heal in his own time, his own way.

“For what it’s worth,” she tells him, “I like who you are, now.”

“Even after…” he turns toward her more, weight shifting from one leg to the other, uncertain as his eyes meet hers.

That he could even ask…

She steps forward, hand falling against his forearm, gripping tight. “Cullen, I care about you. You’ve done nothing to change that.” She’s pretty sure she can’t explain how much it would take to change that—pretty sure she can’t even imagine what it would take.

She lets go, then, stepping back, because this moment isn’t about anything more than letting him know that.

He tilts his head slightly, fragile, warm, smile curving his lips.

“What about you?” he asks—even _now_ , he asks—voice low, and sweet and deep. “You have troubles of your own. How are _you_ holding up?”

And well, she hasn’t had a lot of time to think about it. The last time they’d talked about her, just the two of them, it had been the span of a few sentences, and she’d been trying to deal with the loss of Stroud. There’s still anger, seething deep in her veins for that, and she wants to tell him she’ll be better when they kill Corypheus, when they finally win this war. But deep down, she knows that isn’t the whole truth of what she feels, and he’s been more than honest with her about his fears.

Deep down, ever since the Fade, she’s afraid she won’t live up to everyone’s expectations of her. She’s never been the Herald, after all. And come to find out, she’s not even really a hero; just someone who happened to be in the right place at the right time and ended up with this accidental mark on her hand that might decide the fate of the world. It’s such a slender thread to hold on to.

“Honestly, I’m terrified. So many people depend on us. On me. Corypheus is still out there.”

“We’ve made great strides,” he reassures her. “Do not doubt yourself—or the Inquisition—just yet. If there’s anything I can do,” he offers, in all sincerity, “you have only to ask.” He lifts his hand in a fist, thumping it against his heart in a quick gesture.

That one, small movement, and she understands that beyond whatever they might have together, he has sworn to follow her, sworn to be there for her. Whatever happens, whatever may come, he believes in her. They’ve already covered that they care for each other; this is him letting her know he’s there for her in every other capacity, as well—her friend, her advisor, her Commander. And what that means to her…

She swallows hard against the emotion rising in her throat. “Thank you, Cullen.”

He smiles, glancing away from her for a moment before meeting her eyes again.

“I should return to my duties… but… perhaps later…?” He takes a step toward her, seeming unsure of himself. 

After everything that’s happened, she guesses she isn’t surprised that he would be hesitant. If he needs reassuring, she’s here for that.

“Yes,” she says, stepping forward and reaching out with one hand, catching his fingers between hers, squeezing tight, “later.”

She lifts their interlaced fingers to her lips as he’s so often done, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

The corner of his mouth curls upward in a smile that’s not quite a smirk, and he shakes his head, other arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her in, lips meeting hers in a warm crush. Creators, the feel of him against her, and it feels like it’s been so long.

“This is… all right?” he asks, heated breath against her mouth.

“So much more than all right,” she breathes, lower lip catching against his.

“Good,” he whispers, and she can feel his lips curve in a smile against hers before he kisses her, mouth opening, tongue licking inside, sweet, hot, swirl against hers, tugging her in closer, and she lets go of his hand, fingers sliding up into his hair, twining through his short curls, pulling him down into her.

*

Later turns out to be even later than she’d hoped. 

The candles are burning at half-length, cutting him into a silhouette, profile sharp against the light, sitting at his desk, neck bent over a stack of reports.

He lifts his head, turning to look at her as she enters, walking toward the desk, and she can see his face, half-illuminated candlelight, mouth curving in a smile as he sets his eyes on her.

“Still working?” she asks. “I thought you were… taking things easier.”

“I have a lot of reading to catch up on.” He sighs, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, and she recognizes that motion, has done it often enough, herself. He always pushes himself hard, yesterday just happened to be a day when he pushed _too_ hard. 

So many times, he’s been there for her when she needed him. He’s so rarely needed her, but then, he’s not the kind of person to ask for help. Strong… he’s always been so strong, and somewhere along the way, she’d made him her cornerstone.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t need help sometimes.

She looks at the stack of papers, considering, and then reaches out, fingers closing around the edges, picking it up and pulling it to her chest. “Come on,” she says, inclining her head toward the couch.

His brows rise as he looks up at her, as if uncertain what she intends, but he doesn’t ask. Just gets to his feet, willing to follow her lead. “All right.”

She settles onto the couch, leather creaking, and sets the stack of reports in her lap. Cullen sits down beside her, outer thigh pressing against hers, looking at her with a curious expression. She smiles at him and then picks up the sheet on top with her right hand, giving it her full attention as she begins to read aloud.

“‘Commander, the situation in the Western approach continues as expected.’”

Cullen reaches out, fingertips resting against the forearm of the hand holding the report, and she looks over at him. 

“I… appreciate the offer of assistance, but--” 

“Cullen,” she cuts him off. “You have reports to catch up on. Your eyes are tired; mine aren’t.”

“I just thought…” he blinks, shaking his head fractionally, glancing away, “you might want… to make better use of your time.”

“Better use than spending time with you?” she asks with a teasing smile. “Perish the thought.”

He meets her eyes, smiles back with that lopsided curve to his mouth, and then leans to kiss her, hands coming up to frame her face, lips parting, tongue colliding against hers, circling slowly, drawing back with a quick breath.

“Keep that up,” she murmurs against his lips, “and we’re not going to get _any_ work done.”

He chuckles, low and throaty, mouth brushing hers, firming into a kiss. “Fair enough,” he breathes.

She pulls back with an effort of will, and leans against him, her shoulder touching his as she begins to read out loud again.

Cullen reaches over and takes her free hand, lacing his fingers through hers as he listens.

  
  



	28. There You Are

In the morning, she exits her quarters, on her way to the courtyard when she sights Varric having a heated discussion with a female dwarf. She approaches them, curious, and Varric introduces the woman as Bianca. _The_ Bianca, she assumes, though Bianca tells her half the women in the Guild are named Bianca. Given the furtive glances they exchange during the conversation and the way they’d been arguing moments ago, it’s clear they know each other well. She’s not buying for a second that this woman’s appearance and the name of Varric’s crossbow aren’t related.

Bianca tells her that Corypheus is getting his red lyrium from the thaig Varric and Hawke discovered years ago, and that they may be able to reach it from Valammar, using the Deep Roads. She’s unsure how Bianca could know about the thaig until Varric tells her he’d told Bianca about it, which further solidifies her feeling that this is _the_ Bianca.

Bianca leaves them, and she talks to Varric a bit more. When he agrees that Bianca _could_ be setting them up, she has to wonder about his taste in… whatever Bianca is. Girlfriend? Wife? Ex-wife? She’s clearly very important to him, anyway. Maren has a dozen questions, but she swallows them down, agreeing to make the arrangements for a trip to the Hinterlands to meet with Bianca in Valammar.

*

The Hinterlands evoke a feeling of nostalgia in her—she’d spent so much time here with Cassandra, Solas and Varric, back when it was just the four of them. Those early days, when she hadn’t had a clue what the future held or what her role was in it, before Haven fell and she’d become the Inquisitor. Before she’d known Corypheus existed, when all she’d had to worry about was closing the Breach. It had seemed so complicated then. Looking back now, it seems like such a simpler time.

The sun is bright in the cloudless blue sky, tree leaves green as they weave in and out between each other in the light breeze. Sunlight reflecting off the rippling water of the lake, and the Emerald Graves might be the most beautiful place she’s ever seen, but the Hinterlands feels… comfortable. No strange, ancient elven mysteries she aches to solve, here, every inch of it known to her.

There are two nugs outside the door to Valammar, sound of rushing water filling her ears as she opens it. The Deep Roads are completely unknown to her. She’s had the key to this door for months now, but she’d never bothered to come open it until now.

She inhales the scent of fresh dirt, grass and water, holding it in her lungs for a long moment, and then exhales, stepping into the darkness beyond.

*

It’s not as closed in she’d expected; huge expanses of open space carved into the earth, and she marvels that the dwarves could build something so… vast.

They fight their way through Carta first, an assassin materializing behind her, and she can feel twin blades bounce off her barrier spell, grateful for its protection. Bianca firing off arrows, Varric launching crossbow bolts, Cassandra’s sword flashing, Solas by Maren’s side, the two of them moving in almost perfect unison as they cast spells and fire off bolts of cold and electricity from their staves. 

The Darkspawn show up next and fear tightens her stomach, pushes her heart to pump harder. Creatures she’s only heard of in legend, and they’re horrifying, hideous faces twisted almost beyond recognition of being human once. But they die like anything else, falling to the ground in flames, shattering in a spray of ice, spurting out blackened blood beneath a blade. 

A huge Darkspawn steps from the shadows to meet them and she’s drawing energy for a spell, already knowing it’s too late.

She gets a hammer straight to the chest, breastbone cracking in the instant before she hits the ground, feels a disc in her spine at the base of her neck shatter, and she can’t… breathe… fragments of bone digging into her lungs, and she can’t _move_. Fuck, she can’t **move**.

The hulking creature swings its hammer with both hands, knocking Cassandra aside, and then it focuses on her with its foul eyes, hammer raised above its head, about to bring it down on her—

Energy thrums through her, hard and fast and absolute, and she can’t extend her hand, but it doesn’t matter.

The mark on her palm _explodes_ , slowing time itself, hammer falling in fractions, milliseconds stretched into seconds, its mouth curling in a slow snarl—and then Cassandra comes into view, moving at full speed, body spinning in a tight circle, sword slicing across its throat, severing its head from its body in one swift motion.

Its body jolts backward, teetering between the weight of the hammer and Cassandra’s blow, and she can see it, the instant before it happens; braces for the impact.

It falls forward, hammer hitting the ground first, mere inches from her face, body crashing into hers in a spray of dark blood across her chest, spattering the underside of her chin.

Cassandra’s there in an instant, shoving the body from her and kneeling down. “Inquisitor?”

She sucks in a breath to speak, air escaping through her punctured lungs, and coughs out blood.

Cassandra doesn’t say a word, pulls out a healing potion and pours it into her mouth. She coughs again, choking on blood and the faint taste of elfroot, but at least half of the potion makes it past the convulsion of her throat, warm energy running through bone and muscle, beginning to repair the damage. 

She gasps for breath, pushing her upper body from the stone as she spits out a mouthful of blood, reaching for another potion even as she retches.

The second potion goes down easier, bones crackling and realigning, teeth biting against her fist to hold back a scream of pain. When it’s over, she climbs to her feet, leaning on her staff until she’s steady.

“Inquisitor?” Cassandra asks, hand reaching to touch her shoulder.

She reaches up, laying her hand across Cassandra’s. “I’m fine.” She isn’t, not really, but she’s going to live. For now.

Cassandra draws back, and she pulls herself to full height, taking a deep breath with her newly repaired lungs. She seals the Darkspawn tunnel with a slow rise of her hands in the air, wood and stone falling to place.

She turns her companions, anger burning bright in her heart.

“Let’s finish this.”

*

She’s less than pleased to find out Bianca is the reason red lyrium has been in such high distribution. She’s half-tempted to yell at her, herself, but Varric’s doing a good enough job of chastising her on his own.

And still, Bianca’s parting remark is that she’ll feed Maren her own eyeballs if she gets Varric killed. She understands the sentiment, but that Bianca could say that, after what they’ve been through, after this all being her fault, after Maren had almost died getting them here…

Her fingers flex, wanting to reach for the knife at the back of her belt.

_Varric loves her._

And yes, that much is clear. There must be a reason, even if she can’t see it. Fingertips twitching, falling back to her side, and she watches Bianca walk away into darkness.

*

Her subsequent conversations with Varric as they make the trip back to Skyhold don’t make her feel much better. That she’s married and still has a relationship with Varric to some degree doesn’t bother her. Arranged marriages often produce such relationships, as she understands. 

She just doesn’t understand why Varric holds so much love for her, fifteen years later. It must have been amazing, whatever they’d had, back then. But it isn’t that, anymore.

_And you and Cullen? If he was forced to marry someone else?_

Fifteen years or a lifetime, and she’s sure she’s never going forget him. What he’s meant to her. Would she still see him, be with him, after he’d married someone else?

She can’t even imagine it, her mind rejecting the scenario outright, refusing to make a decision.

Yeah. She’s got no business judging Varric.

She just… wanted better for him.

*

They ride into Skyhold near midday, and it’s been two weeks, and she’s so happy to see him, to find him in his office with his soldiers, to see his smile, send him a surreptitious kiss from the tips of her fingers, and duck out, letting him deal with whatever is happening in the moment. 

*

Dusk is settling across Skyhold, sun at the edge of the horizon, light turned pink and orange, colors bright against the sky, holding against the deep blue of the impending night when she goes to him.

He folds her into his arms first, hugging her tight, then, fingertips rising, sliding down her cheek as he kisses her. “There you are,” he breathes.

“Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes—I mean no,” he replies, suddenly awkward as he draws back.

His arm is still around her waist, and well, all right, then. “I can come back later if you’d prefer.”

“No,” he objects. “Please stay. We have some dealings in Ferelden. I was hoping you might accompany me. When you can spare the time, of course.”

He’s never asked her to go anywhere outside of Skyhold. Is there Inquisition business she needs to be aware of? 

“Is something wrong?” she asks.

“What?” he asks, surprised, caught off guard. “No. I would rather explain there, if you wish to go.”

She doesn’t know where in Ferelden they might be traveling, but it’s potentially days of the two of them spending time together.

“I believe there’s time now,” she tells him, and well, there are other matters that could use her attention, certainly, but they’ve abruptly been put on hold. They can wait.

The smile that tugs at his mouth is gratified. “I will make the necessary arrangements.”

“Good.” She starts to pull away, ask him what she’s missed while she’s been gone, but as she begins to step back, he tightens his arms around her, dips his head to kiss her again. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” she says, slightly out of breath when he finally draws back, “but what is going on?”

“I…” he glances away from her, before meeting her eyes again. “I read the report this afternoon… on what happened at Valammar.”

There’s only one reason that report would bother him. But she’s familiar with Cassandra’s reports. Cassandra’s a warrior; that she would have even noted that the Inquisitor had nearly died seems odd. 

“What did Cassandra say?” she asks, confused.

“Varric,” he corrects, “wrote the report. It was… quite vivid.”

Oh. Creators, she can only imagine the detail. Memory of that hammer, poised to fall on her head, body unresponsive, lungs begging for air. “It wasn’t… that bad.”

“I appreciate the effort on my behalf,” he says, lips pulling in the ghost of a smile. “But I think we both know better."

She opens her mouth, trying to find something to say, and then closes it, finding nothing.

Cullen takes a breath, then goes on, “When we spoke that day, in the garden—the day before we played chess—you asked me about your use of magic. If I didn’t worry about you.” Fingers curling beneath her chin, thumb catching in the space between her lower lip and her chin as he looks at her. “I told you your use of _magic_ didn’t worry me.”

_“So you really don't...worry about me?”_

_“I don't worry about your use of magic.”_

She remembers, and she remembers that there’d been something about the specific way he’d said it that had tugged at her, even though she hadn’t had time to examine it in the moment.

Fenedhis, how blind had she been? He hadn’t worried about her use of magic, but he’d worried about _her_. Even then, he’d been telling her how he cared for her.

“You have enough to deal with without worrying about me,” she nearly whispers, the one who has to look away, for once.

“And yet, here I am,” he murmurs back, echoing her words from the day they’d first kissed on the battlements.

One corner of her mouth curves in a smile, and she wonders if that’s what he’d been trying to say, just before she’d said that-- _You have enough to deal with without worrying about me_. Knowing him, probably. And still, she’d wanted to be there.

She rises up on her toes, surging to kiss him, mouth meeting his, opening wet and messy, fingers threading through his hair, tightening around the back of his skull, pulling him in deeper. Hot, sweet tangling of tongues, and she pulls back slow, kissing his lips several times before she draws back far enough to meet his eyes.

“I’ll try to ‘almost die’ less,” she promises.

“I would… appreciate that,” he says, lips curling in a slight smile, thumb brushing along the line of her jaw.

She smiles back, and he glances away, thoughtful when he looks back at her, thumb resting just against her earlobe. He lifts his hand, smoothing her hair back on the side that isn’t braided.

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” he asks. “I hear the cook made roast druffalo tonight.”

Having dinner together sounds perfect.

She reaches up, taking his hand in hers. “Let’s go.”

  
  



	29. Happier Times

The trip south is less romantic than she’d imagined; they travel with a merchant caravan being escorted by soldiers. Still, it’s a smaller affair than the march to wage war on Adamant, they get to ride together and spend time together in the evenings when they make camp. Conversations shared by the campfire, his face bathed in orange light and shadow as they talk, sitting shoulder to shoulder, staying up far later than the merchants and most of the soldiers. They’re both of them used to keeping late hours.

It isn’t as romantic as she’d imagined, but it’s still wonderful, getting to spend even this much time with him without constant interruption.

*

They make camp in Honnleath on Cullen’s command. A fresh contingent of soldiers arrives to meet them, and apparently they’ll be seeing the merchants on to their destination, come morning.

She isn’t sure why they couldn’t have spent the night in an inn—there aren’t _that_ many soldiers, and surely the Inquisition can afford it.

“Do you have something against inns?” she asks, teasing, when Cullen joins her by the fire.

“I…” He hesitates momentarily, and then holds out his hand toward her. “There is something I would like to show you.”

She reaches out, fingers resting across his palm, and he rises to his feet, waiting for her to follow before he leads her away from the flickering circle of firelight. Threading through the tents, and then through the trees, down to the shore of a lake.

The landscape is lush with trees, even here, night painted around them in shades of green blue, and black. Lake water laps at the edge of the grassy earth, so close to where they walk, mountains rising in the distance on the other side, proud, tall, silhouettes of sharp black cut from the night sky. The sky above them glitters, a tapestry of stars spilling out around the twin crescents of moon.

Cullen leads them to the right, stopping at the beginning of what seems a makeshift dock, rounded tree branches woven together, uneven and warped in places, nothing like the smooth boards used in ports.

He turns to look at her beneath the boughs of an almond tree, face pale and gorgeous in the moonlight, shadows dancing over his features as leaves sway above them.

“The mission you went on to Valammar. It made me think about…”

She tilts her head to the side as she regards him, uncertain where he’s going with this.

"When you were lost at Haven... I..." he trails off, looking down at the ground.

"Cullen,” she breathes, reaching for his hand, holding tight. “It's all right. I'm here now."

"I know. And I am truly grateful," he says, hazel eyes meeting hers, the gentlest of smiles turning up the corners of his mouth. His expression shifts, then, smile fading from his lips, eyes tightening just the slightest bit as he goes somber again. "But when you were gone... and I thought you might be...” He glances away, shakes his head. “I realized, while I stood watch, hoping in vain for some miracle, that you might appear..." His voice softens to a near whisper, eyes locking on hers, "That I had come to care for you, more than I should have.”

“Cullen…” she feels like she can barely breathe, heart aching against her ribs. Everything she feels for him swells in her chest, throat too tight to unlock the words. She kisses him, then, rising up on her toes, answering him the only way she knows how.

He smiles down at her, fingertips rising to touch her face. The smile slowly fades as he looks out in the direction of the water. “And then, what happened to you at Valammar…” He turns, body following the direction of his gaze as he steps forward into the dock, releasing her hand.

He doesn’t say anything more, but he doesn’t need to; she understands well enough. She wonders why he’d brought her here to talk about it, though. Rushes rise from the water, waving in the gentle breeze, and it’s so quiet here, peaceful and beautiful.

“Where are we?” she asks as she follows him onto the dock, mist rising around them off the placid water. 

“You walk into danger every day,” he says, walking forward, looking back at her as he speaks. “I wanted to take you away from that, if only for a moment.” 

That’s why he’d asked her to come along? She supposes she should have guessed.

Cullen stops at the end of the dock, wood creaking beneath his feet, and turns toward her as he leans back against a post. “I grew up not far from here. This place was always quiet.”

She looks out at the rippling water, its surface dotted with lily pads, imagining him here as boy. “Did you come here often?”

“I loved my siblings,” he goes on, looking away from the water and back to her. “But they were very loud. I would come here to clear my head. Of course,” he says, note of amusement in his voice, “they always found me eventually.”

“You were happy here?” she asks, stepping and turning her body to face him.

“I was. I still am,” he adds, looking out at the lake.

“While we’re here, you have me all to yourself,” she notes, sultry lilt to her voice.

“The thought may have crossed my mind,” he says, his tone as suggestive as the look he briefly sends her way, one brow arching at her, crooked smile tugging at his mouth even as he speaks the words.

She smiles back at him, and they both stand in silence for a moment, watching lily pads rise and fall in time with the surface of the lake. She can imagine him as a child, sitting here in the silence, smiling at the peace of it all. She can’t imagine that he’d thought he’d ever be here with someone like her.

“You wanted to be a Templar since you were a young boy. Did you ever imagine you’d come here with a mage, one day?”

“No. I couldn’t have, back then.” He shakes his head slightly. “The Templars have rules on fraternization,” he allows, “but I am no longer bound by them.”

She tilts her head at him, curious. “Would it really have stopped you? If we’d met before?”

“I…” he looks at the ground, glancing rapidly left and right, obviously discomfited. “I don’t—I—” He all but rolls his eyes at himself, and then closes them briefly as he pushes from the post, standing up straight alongside her.

She folds her arms across her chest and smiles, rueful and amused as she shakes her head. “You _could_ say, ‘No, of course not.’”

It’s just like him that he wouldn’t, though. That he’d be completely incapable of lying to her, even in this.

The look his gives her then is so sincere, his voice so soft it nearly melts her heart, “It is hard to believe I wouldn’t have noticed you.”

They stand in silence for a moment and she lets her arms fall, giving him a small smile as she takes a step closer to him.

“The last time I was here,” he says, “was the day I left for Templar training. My brother gave me this.” He opens his left hand, an old coin nestled against his palm. “It just happened to be in his pocket,” he goes on, his tone fond, “but he said it was for luck.”

“Templars are not supposed to carry such things,” he explains, looking up from the coin to meet her eyes, “our faith should see us through.”

“You broke the order’s rules?” she asks, her tone teasing. “I’m shocked.”

“Until a year ago, I was very good at following them.” He gives a slight chuckle, and then adds, “Most of the time.” He looks down at the coin again, extending his hand outward as if to get a better look at it. “This is the only thing I took from Ferelden that the Templars didn’t give me.”

He’s silent for a moment, and then he steps toward her, reaching for her hand. “Humor me,” he says, looking at her as puts the coin in her hand. “We don’t know what you’ll face, before the end. This can’t hurt.”

It seems like too much, to accept something that’s so special to him, that he’s carried with him all these years. But he’s offering it to her, and she can hardly refuse such a meaningful gesture.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she promises, hand closing around the coin.

“Good.” He steps forward, reaching out, his hand closing around her hip and pulling her toward him. “I know it’s foolish but… I’m glad.” He pulls her in, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her, tongue slipping past her lips, meeting hers sweet and slow.

When they break apart a few moments later, she remains in the circle of his arms, slipping the coin carefully into an inside pocket. 

“I don’t think it’s foolish at all,” she tells him as she looks back up at him. She has no idea whether or not it’s lucky, but for him to entrust her with such an important piece of his life—there’s nothing foolish about that.

He leans down, lips brushing hers briefly, voice low and husky as he speaks, “I should have died during the Blight, or at Kirkwall, Haven. Take your pick. And yet I made it back here. As I said, it can’t hurt for you to keep it.”

It makes sense, now, why he’d brought her here. Why he’d talked about her nearly dying at Haven and then at Valammar. What had happened at Valammar must have—

_Creators—that’s why he arranged this entire trip_

She looks at him, eyes widening with realization. “There were never any dealings in Ferelden, were there? You made it up.” He’d lied to her—and just minutes ago, she’d thought him incapable of such a thing.

“Not at all,” he insists, smile toying at the corners of his mouth. “The caravan _did_ need an escort.”

She just stares at him for a moment, and then shakes her head, unable to hold back a laugh. “Yes. And it needed the _Commander of the Inquisition_ to help protect it this far.”

“I wanted to tell you, give you the coin when we got here. I didn’t know how else to…” He trails off, lifting one shoulder, shaking his head slightly. “I hope it doesn’t bother you that it wasn’t… strictly necessary.”

“It doesn’t.” She smiles, pressing her lips to his for a moment, and then she draws back, looking at him, feeling the warmth of him against her, the tranquility around them. “Actually, it’s very romantic.”

“Is it?” he asks, pleased smile dawning on his lips.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t mean for it to be,” she scoffs, gently. He had to have known, how could he not?

“I _had_ hoped,” he admits, smile growing wider.

She grins back, and it feels _good_ to be here with him, to have been able to spend all this extra time together, even if they haven’t been alone much. Sudden sadness slips around her heart as she realizes they’ll be heading back in the direction of Skyhold tomorrow, and her smile fades rapidly from her face. “I wish we could stay longer,” she whispers.

“As do I,” he whispers back. “But the night isn’t over yet.” He kisses her again and then takes her hand, tugging her down to sit beside him near the edge of the dock.

They sit in silence for a time, shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, watching the rippling surface of the lake.

After a while, Cullen’s fingertips rise to touch her face, and as many times as he’s done that, she’s never noticed him doing what he’s doing now; tracing out her markings, the pattern of cobalt blue on her skin. She hasn’t considered it in a long time—she supposes she must have thought he’d stopped seeing them. 

“Your... vallaslin,” he hesitates over the word, uncertain he’s said it right, eyes meeting hers in question.

She nods, affirming that he’s pronounced it correctly, wondering where he’s going with this. He probably wants to know about the ritual, why they do it. Those are fairly standard questions the Dalish get asked by friendlier humans. Invasive when asked by strangers, but Cullen has earned the right, and reason, to ask. He is involved with a Dalish elf, after all.

“When we played chess,” he goes on, emboldened by her nod, fingertips leaving her cheek, falling back to his side. “You told me your vallaslin honored the god June. But… you never said why you chose him.”

She blinks at him, amazed that he’d even wonder. “I… didn’t think it would be important to you.”

“You believe in nine gods. You chose to honor one above the others, to wear their markings. It must be important to _you_.”

“It is,” she agrees, nodding. “I’m just… surprised you’d be curious about that.”

“I want to know more about you, and the Dalish.” He pauses, hesitating as his eyes search her expression. “Unless you don’t wish to talk about it.”

“It isn’t that… it’s just, no one has ever asked me that. The Dalish consider it deeply personal, and humans… they never cared enough to ask about that part, I suppose.”

“I thought it might be deeply personal.” His tone conveys that she’s confirmed his thoughts. “That’s why I waited until we knew each other better before I asked.”

“Like I waited until we knew each other better before I asked you a million questions about becoming a Templar?” she asks, looking at him with a smirk.

He gives a light chuckle. “I didn’t mind.”

“I don’t either.” She squeezes his hand and turns her body to face him, sitting cross-legged on the dock. He turns his body, posture mirroring hers, their hands still intertwined across their laps, and now she can look directly at him. 

“It means a lot that you thought ask,” she tells him. That he cares because it’s important to her, and Creators, she thinks as she looks at him, what is she going to do with this sweet, thoughtful, beautiful, badass man?

And well, she can think of a few things… but this isn’t the time or place for that.

She pauses, gathering her thoughts to tell him the story of a young girl who had grown up learning to be a hunter, who had always felt drawn to June because it was he who taught her people how to craft bows, arrows and knives to hunt and fill their bellies. A girl whose magic manifested and set her life on a different path at age fourteen, and who at fifteen received her vallaslin to honor June, because of all the gods, he would always be closest to her heart.

They talk late into the night, kissing in between conversations, the lantern on the dock burning out long before they’re done, both of them reluctant to part from each other’s company.


	30. Where the Heart Is

They steal as much time together as they can during the return trip to Skyhold, and upon arrival, share one last embrace before heading off to their respective duties. She suspects it will be a couple days before she gets to spend any significant amount of time with him again, with almost two week’s worth of pressing issues having piled up during their absence.

Still, she heads to the Undercroft straight away to meet with Harritt and Dagna about constructing a metal ring to fit around Cullen’s coin, complete with a joining loop that she can string a leather cord through so that she can wear it around her neck. Harritt makes a cast of the coin to work from so she doesn’t have to leave it with them, and Dagna promises to send for her when she’s ready to fit the coin inside and seal the metal band around it.

The day passes in a rush of activity, and when she finally arrives at Cullen’s office very late in the evening, the two of them fall asleep on the couch in each other’s arms, completely exhausted.

*

She spends the morning in several meetings and then has a follow-up with Josephine afterward. 

Her Ambassador looks lovely, perfectly pulled together, hair braided neatly back into a bun as always, her eyes bright as she shuffles through papers with an energetic efficiency that makes Maren tired just watching her. She wonders how Josephine manages to make everything look effortless and be completely poised while she does it. 

“We’ve received a request from Duke Gaspard de Chalons himself about the situation in the Exalted Plains. The demon situation is worsening in the area, and although he and the Empress have ceased fighting, his armies maintain several forts there. They are in danger of being overrun.”

“I cleared out a couple of the ramparts,” she replies, wincing at the memory of the Arcane Horror that had nearly killed her. They seem to do that a lot. Fucking Arcane Horrors.

“Yes,” Josephine acknowledges. “The Duke requests that we clear out the others in an effort to minimize losses to his forces.”

Given the bodies of innocent children Maren had found brutally murdered by Gaspard and Celene’s forces, Maren doesn’t feel all that particularly inclined to help his soldiers, and says as much.

“I understand,” Josephine says. “But please do recall, we’re relying on the Duke’s assistance to gain entrance to the Winter Palace—assistance we desperately need. To that end, it is crucial that we maintain a good relationship with him. Assisting with this request will keep us in the Duke’s good graces—it may even gain us more favor.”

Maren sighs, shifting in her seat. “So, we need to make this a priority.”

“Yes, Inquisitor, I’m afraid so.”

“All right,” she says, and sighs again, mentally readying herself to prepare for the journey for the next several hours. “I’ll put together a team and have them prepare to leave tomorrow.”

“Very good,” Josephine says, making a note on her clipboard. Maren eyes the candle affixed to the top and wonders why it never seems to burn any lower—some sort of stasis magic cast on the candle itself, she’d guess. Which makes sense, given that a burning candle on a clipboard holding important documents has always struck her as absurd and dangerous.

“I believe that concludes our business for the moment, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, beginning to re-organize the stack of papers on the table between them.

Maren rises from her chair and sets out to start packing.

*

She selects her companions for the mission carefully, remembering there’s a Dalish clan in the area. As long as she has to be there anyway, she may as well check in on them and see if they’re well. That means no humans in her group for the sake of not accidentally offending them. Some Dalish clans are less opposed to human presence than others, but she has no idea what their feelings are on the matter.

The irony that she doesn’t dare bring Solas or Sera with her isn’t lost on her. The only other elves in her group and neither of them can stand the Dalish. That leaves her with Iron Bull, Varric and… shit. A whole bunch of humans. She finally decides on bringing Cole since his presence doesn’t register for most people. 

She sends out messengers to notify them, and then begins packing.

*

Sometime after midday, she takes a moment to check in on Cullen, finding him kneeling on one knee in front of the bookcases by the door. He rises to his feet as she enters, smiling at her, and she asks him about his day so far.

The smile slips from his face as he folds his arms across his chest, regarding her in all seriousness. “Sera brought me a piece of cake. She thought I looked hungry.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks, confused and amused.

“Because it was either an act of kindness or a trap. I was hoping you knew which.” Cullen’s confusion is written in every line of his face.

“Maybe she has a crush on you,” she teases.

Cullen frowns at her, head tilting slightly to one side as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “But... I thought she...”

“Having a crush on someone doesn't always mean you want to have sex with them. Maybe she finds you fascinating.” Based on Sera’s behavior, vocal and written comments about Cullen, Maren’s fairly sure it’s true.

Cullen’s frown grows even deeper, brows knitting together in consternation. “Why would she find me fascinating?”

“Oh, I don't know,” she says, tone light and airy, eyes glancing up and to the side as she pretends to think about it. “She’s an agent of chaos; you’re the picture of complete control. I can't imagine.”

“I pray you're wrong,” he says, tone grave. “I may not survive such a fascination.”

Despite his obvious concern, she can’t help but chuckle. “Did you eat the cake?”

“I...” he scuffs one boot heel against the floor, looking guilty. “Well, I _was_ hungry.”

His tone is very nearly petulant, and she smiles, amused, her heart swelling with affection for him. “Mir nen,” _My joy_ , she says with a shake of her head.

“What?”

“You're adorable,” she tells him, stepping up to him and pressing her lips to his.

“I’m certain you’re the only one who thinks so,” he replies, dry, and wraps his arms around her. “At least, I hope so. ‘Adorable’ doesn’t inspire soldiers.”

“How _do_ the soldiers feel? About us, I mean?” She’s not even going to pretend they don’t know, with as many times as the two of them have kissed in front of them.

“They’re surprisingly supportive,” he says, as if he finds the reaction remarkable. 

“That isn’t so surprising. They are loyal to you, after all.”

“And to you,” he adds, and then his eyes go thoughtful. “I suppose it does make a certain sort of sense, given that.”

“And what about you? How are you feeling, today?” she asks him, laying gentle fingertips against his temple.

His eyes focus on her, and he smiles, voice softening as he replies, “Better, now that you’re here.”

“Adorable _and_ sweet,” she notes, giving him an impish grin.

“Maker’s breath,” he mutters as if she’s hopeless, still smiling as he bends to kiss her.

*

Cullen comes to see her off the following morning, kissing her goodbye, and Cole, thankfully, keeps quiet about what might be going through their heads.

Varric, Iron Bull, and Cole all get along quite well, which she’s grateful for. One time she’d made the mistake of bringing Blackwall, Vivienne, and Cole as a group. They’d made it two days into the trip before she’d turned around to go back to Skyhold and organize a new group, an event that had tickled Varric to no end.

_“You actually pulled a, ‘so help me I will turn this wagon around’?”_

At least she can smile about it, now.

*

The Exalted Plains are as much of a mess as Josephine had led her to believe, and they spend days plowing through demons, inside forts as well as on the roads. Mythal have mercy, there’s an Arcane Horror in every single fort, but she manages to push through without grievous injury. In one battle against an Arcane Horror, Iron Bull goes down and she’s terrified that without him, they won’t have a prayer against the demon. Fortunately, Cole materializes in a cloud of smoke behind the creature, sinking his blades deep into its back, ending the fight then and there.

By the time they reach the Dalish camp, they’re all tired and even Bull is temporarily burnt out on killing. Keeper Hawen welcomes them with surprising warmth—mostly due to the fact that she’s Dalish, she’s sure. They spend two nights within the encampment, and on the second night, after they’ve dealt with the demons in Var Bellanaris and helped with all the other problems the clan had been facing, everyone is far more comfortable with each other.

Varric and Loranil are talking with each other on the other side of the fire, their conversation animated though inaudible. Nissa sits on the ground between the sprawl of Iron Bull’s legs, his massive hands demonstrating surprising finesse and precision as he braids the woman’s flowing red hair. Emalien sits near Bull, talking to Maren, asking her questions about clan Lavellan. She seems better since Cole had sat with her for a long while earlier, whispering comforting things to her, helping to ease her pain over the loss of her brother. Maren’s incredibly glad that she’d brought him with her.

Cole sits above them now, perched on the edge of the lip of the shallow cave, his shins dangling over the edge, feet kicking back and forth through the air, upper body a silhouette cut perfectly from the star strewn sky.

When Maren mentions that she’s going to visit Halamshiral soon, Emalien’s face darkens and she begins to tell Maren about Celene slaughtering elves in Orlais. Her face is grave as she speaks of the elven alienages Celene had burned to the ground with the elves still inside, the Dalish clan that had been wiped out in the Empress’ attempt to keep her throne.

_Creators…_ she thinks, _and I’m supposed to **stop** the assassination on Celene?_

She makes a mental note to send a bird out to Leliana immediately upon arriving at an Inquisition camp. If anyone can verify the truth of what she’s just been told, it will be Leliana. For now, she pushes it to the back of her mind.

Shortly thereafter, Olafin and the other hunter return to camp with six hares. She and Emalien help them skin the animals, and it seems like such a long time since Maren’s done this, the motions ingrained so deeply in muscle memory she doesn’t even need to think about them, talking with Emalien the entire time. Soon, the hares are prepared and threaded on the spit, roasting over the fire.

After they finish eating, they sit about the fire, exchanging stories and sharing a couple bottles of wine, Olafin playing soft notes of music on a lute; Nissa’s head on Bull’s lap, Maren’s resting against one of his arms.

She feels comfortable here, all of it familiar and known to her, like slipping into an old pair of leathers. And yet… something is lacking, strange emptiness stirring within her. She thinks back to evenings spent with her clan, their day’s work done. There had been a sense of _belonging_ that she can see even now in the elven faces around her. Even on nights when they’d gone hungry, they’d had each other.

She thinks about the words Cole had said when they’d arrived here yesterday: _“They keep coming back. Searching, seeking, sad. But home is gone.”_

It had made her heart ache when he’d said it, but looking around, she realizes it isn’t true. The Dalish have lost their ancient home, and that loss will always be mourned, but _this_ is home, now. Not a place they can return to, but something they carry with them. There in the love that unites them, the community they’ve built, the trouble they share. It isn’t much compared to what’s been taken from them, but it’s all they have left.

She could return to her clan one day, perhaps. They would surely welcome her. But Cassandra had been right, all those months ago; it would never be the same. She is changed, by far more than the mark on her hand, and the Dalish are not a changing people.

Part of her had known that when Corypheus told her the anchor was permanent. When she had come to Skyhold and called it home. But she hadn't fully realized it until now.

Her sense of belonging is in the faces of her friends around her, in the people she’d left behind in an ancient elven fortress, in late nights and hazel eyes and strong arms.

Her home with the Dalish is gone.

  
  



	31. The Road to Halamshiral

When they finally return to Skyhold, it’s around midday, and she’s beset by a messenger almost instantly.

“Lady Dagna said you’d want to know right away, Inquisitor.”

She still checks Cullen’s office before she heads to the Undercroft, but he isn’t there. Well, that will give her time for a bath, anyway.

*

Afterward, she sits on her bed, half wrapped in a towel, her skin warm and dry as cool wind coasts in from outside.

Her fingers close around the sylvanwood ring that hangs suspended between her breasts, carved in the image of a wolf, her thumb tracing over the ridged ears. The image of Fen’Harel always present, always with the protectors of the clan, a constant reminder of what they must protect against. She is no longer a protector of her clan, her protection extended to the entirety of Thedas, and their enemy looms larger on the horizon than Fen’Harel ever did. 

When she’d taken it from her finger to wear it around her throat, it had been symbolic of putting her duties as First aside for a larger purpose. But she’d kept it with her, on her at all times, a reminder that the Inquisition was temporary, that she had other duties to return to. And for a long time, she believed one day she’d put that ring back on her finger and go back to her clan and go on with her life. Somewhere along the way, the Inquisition had become home.

She holds up the coin Cullen had given her, now ringed by a band of silverite sealed around its outside edge, chain of the same metal dangling from its setting, spilling over her hand and swinging slightly in the breeze coasting through the open doors from outside, catching sunlight on its links.

One representing the bond she has formed here, with Cullen, the other representing the only life she’d known before the Inquisition, and they pull in opposite directions. 

It doesn’t matter. She’ll always be a Dalish elf, no matter where she belongs. Maybe that’s just how she goes through life now; one foot in both worlds. 

She slips the necklace with Cullen’s coin over her head, feeling the cool weight of it settle between her breasts, just above the wooden ring.

*

She walks the battlements with Cullen, her hand linked through his, smile playing on her lips as her other hand rises, touching the shapes of the coin and the ring beneath her shirt. She can hear the people of Skyhold talking, laughing, and going about their day, can feel the magic sunk deep into the stone of the fortress, hear the way it whispers when she listens.

Cullen glances sidelong at her, and he smiles but doesn’t say anything, smiling at seeing her smile, perhaps.

They come to a stop at the far end of the battlements where the walls crumble away toward the waterfall, stone sun-warmed beneath them as they sit. Cullen tilts his head, bending forward slightly to meet her eyes, smiling as he reaches out, gloved fingertips stroking along her cheek as he leans to kiss her, pressing warm lips to hers, gentle and holding for a long instant.

He draws back, brushing a stray strand of hair behind one of her ears as he regards her, still smiling. “You seem happy.”

“I am.”

“Anything you wish to share?” he asks.

“I…” She tries to decide where to begin, taking a moment to find her place. “When I was in the Exalted Plains, we camped with the Dalish for two nights. And it was nice, it was familiar, comfortable. But I…” the wind blows a lock of hair into her eyes and she tucks it back, eyes shifting to look up at the sky. “I realized I didn’t belong there anymore.”

Cullen is silent, waiting for her to go on.

“I always thought I’d go back, when this was over. But my home is here, now. Skyhold, the Inquisition, everyone here.” She takes a breath, considering her words. “I thought I should be sadder about it, not belonging in the place that was home all my life. But it’s not as if I’ve lost anything. I’ll always be Dalish. I can always go back and visit my clan, my brothers and their families.”

“But I’ve changed too much to belong there. I’ve been changing since I got this mark on my hand.” She lifts her left hand slightly. “And it’s been so gradual that I didn’t realize it was happening until I had my old life to compare it to.”

Cullen shifts next to her, voice soft and musing as he speaks, “I… had wondered if you planned to return to your clan when this was all over.”

She smiles, sitting back slightly as she looks at him. “Alas, I think you’re stuck with me.”

He chuckles, and then the corner of his mouth curves in a warm smile, eyes glinting with something like adoration as they meet hers. He reaches out, fingertips touching her face, voice gentle and sweet as he says, “I’m not complaining.”

“Good.” She leans to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck, his mouth opening to her, hot and wet, and Creators he feels good in her arms, solid and sun-warm and perfect, kissing her back until her head’s on fire and her heart is too full, and she wants to push him back against the stone, unbuckle his armor and peel off his linen, show him exactly how he makes her feel. 

He draws back, kissing her mouth, thumb following behind his lips as he looks at her. “It’s good to feel like you know where you belong. I’m happy for you.”

“Oh,” she says, suddenly remembering. “I wanted to show you…” She pulls from his embrace, sitting back and reaching for the buttons at the top of her shirt, slipping them free, one, two, three—

“I, ah. I’m not sure the battlements are the best place for, um…”

Her fingers stop mid-motion on the fourth button, and she doesn’t lift her chin from where it’s pointed at her chest, looking up at him from under her brows. “For what?”

His eyes are ticking back and forth between her and the battlements. “We’re, ah, anyone could…”

“Oh.” She’d been so excited to show him, she hadn’t even thought—damn this stupid… uniform, or whatever it is, tight and buttoning all the way up to her neck. She thinks about it for a few seconds, and then she undoes the fourth button, opening her shirt to the center of her chest. Her breasts are almost completely covered by form fitting beige, only the very outer swells revealed, slight space between them where the ring and coin rest against her skin. She’s seen women walk around in public wearing more revealing clothing.

“I just wanted you to know… it’s safe.” She lifts the coin up and away from her chest to show him, raising her head in time with the motion. “And it’s always with me.”

His eyes lock on the coin, brows rising in surprise, and then he reaches out, barest edge of his first two fingers catching beneath it. “You…You had this made?”

“Dagna and Harritt,” she says, nodding as she releases her hold on it, leaving it for him to look at however he likes. 

“You had Dagna and Harritt spend time making this?” he asks, like he’s surprised, turning it over between his thumb and forefinger.

“Yes. Harritt made a cast of it so I could keep it with me while he made the fitting. When I got back today, Dagna used some kind of rune to seal the fitting so they wouldn’t have to risk damaging the coin with heat. She also said she used a protection rune to… keep any of it from breaking, including the chain. Don’t worry,” she hastens to add, “I didn’t let her do anything to the actual coin.”

“They must have thought it was important, to have put in so much effort,” he says, looking up at her.

“Why wouldn’t they?” She’s genuinely puzzled. “Dagna was disappointed that I wouldn’t let her test the coin to see if it was magical, but after she got over that…”

“I’m surprised that you… that they… went to so much trouble for…” He sighs then, voice softening to a near whisper, threadbare with honesty. “I didn’t expect it to mean so much to you. I’m pleased that it does.”

She smiles, leaning in to kiss him, brief pressure of her lips against his and then she draws back, whispering, “Of course it does.”

His answering smile is slow and pleased, and then he bends his head to look at the necklace again. “It’s excellent craftsmanship. Not that I’d expect any less from Dagna and Harritt.” 

He turns it over between his fingers again, and then he moves to place it back against her chest. He doesn’t let it drop, perhaps mindful of the impact, settling it against her skin, gloved fingertips lingering beneath the edge, backs of his fingers grazing the outer swell of her left breast, sending a shiver through her.

His gaze remains ostensibly on the coin, and she notes he doesn’t seem at all shy or uncomfortable staring at the space between her breasts, which for him is practically brazen.

“You’re… not wearing a band?” He turns the words into a question, even though he can clearly see she isn’t.

“I’m a Dalish elf.” She smirks, cheeky. “You’re lucky I put on boots.”

He chuckles, but he still doesn’t look up, taking a moment longer to… admire the coin? The view? She isn’t sure, but when he releases it, the backs of his fingers brush against the outside of her breast and it damned near feels deliberate this time.

She’s about to reach for his hand and tell him he doesn’t have to pull away, when the sound of a boot scuffle in the distance reminds her they’re not alone out here.

He obviously hears it, too, drawing back quickly and sitting up a bit straighter as he clears his throat and glances down at the stone of the battlements. “Thank you for ah, taking such good care of it.”

“Of course.” She begins buttoning up her shirt, swallowing down her annoyance at the interruption, and by the time she’s pulled back together, shirt smoothed into place, it’s almost gone. She can’t help but be happy to be here with him right now, and she knows she’d better enjoy it, because something’s sure to come along any moment and destroy her happy mood completely.

They stay, sitting on the edge of the battlements for a while longer, fingers latticed together as they talk of other things, and when she kisses him again, he’s as sweet and warm as ever.

*

Leliana sends for her just before dinner time, and one look at the other woman’s face tells her her mood is about to be ruined.

“It’s true about the alienage.” Leliana contemplates her from across the table, expression half-shrouded by her hood. “The circumstances surrounding the Dalish clan’s destruction are more difficult to confirm, since the only people involved who are still alive benefit nothing by speaking of it.”

“You already knew about the alienage, didn’t you?”

“Of course. It was a very public event.”

“And you didn’t see fit to mention this to me, because..?”

“It didn’t seem relevant to the current situation.”

“It didn’t seem--?” Maren cuts herself off shaking her head. “You can see why this makes me reluctant to save Celene’s life. I’d prefer the person on the throne not have a history of slaughtering elves.”

“You must understand, Inquisitor, if you wish to help the elves, Briala is the person we need to focus on. Whether Briala should work with Gaspard or Celene is what is in question.”

“Celene burned down an alienage,” her voice quivers with anger.

“That is true.” Leliana is calm, composed. “But the elves started a rebellion inside the alienage. Even had Gaspard been on the throne, he would have had no choice but to stop them to maintain his position and the support of the nobles. Indeed, Gaspard might have done it on principle, before the nobles became upset. He is a military leader, after all.”

“You’re saying Celene made the right choice?” 

“I’m saying she did what anyone sitting on the throne would have done. One of the elves who survived reported that Briala herself came to alienage before the fire and told them they had made a mistake. That if one fortifies walls in defiance of the nobles; the nobles will be obligated to come kick those walls down.”

Even Briala…? She is so out of her depth in all this. There is no simple right and wrong here, although she desperately believes there should be. “And you don’t believe Gaspard would have found a different solution?”

“I can only speculate. He is a brilliant strategist, a master tactician, but he is, ultimately, a soldier. Do you imagine he would have taken the time to work out another solution?”

Put that way, she can nearly see Leliana’s point. Fenedhis, she hates this.

“However,” Leliana cautions, “there are other factors to be considered.”

“Such as?”

“When Celene and Briala were together, Celene worked to give the elves greater rights. She did so slowly, because she understands change must come with time, or else the people will revolt and Orlais would be thrown into chaos. I am not certain Gaspard possesses the same… diplomatic qualities. Briala has the elves’ best interests at heart, but I fear she may also lack the political understanding to do so slowly.”

Maren tilts her head at Leliana, her eyes narrowing. “You think I should put Briala in power with Celene.”

“What we know of Gaspard does not point to be him being an effective political leader, although he would be a great military leader, if such a thing is needed in a country as powerful as Orlais. Paired with Briala… I fear what could happen. Celene has proven herself to be a somewhat effective political leader, and she would be an advocate for the elves, especially with Briala at her side once again.”

“You’re making so much sense I feel like I’m being manipulated.” 

Leliana inclines her head toward Maren, respectful. “You have the elves’ best interests at heart. So do I. For reasons you well know.”

Of course. Leliana, the beloved of the Hero of Fereldan. Sometimes she forgets she’s sitting in the presence of someone loved by such greatness. A human loved by a Dalish elf, at that. There must be good reason for that. 

“But I am only your advisor, Inquisitor. Whatever you decide to do about the attempt on Celene’s life, much of this will be determined by what we find out at the Winter Palace, and will depend on our ability to maneuver Briala into a position of power behind either one.”

Maren nods in understanding. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“That is my job, is it not?” Leliana smiles.

*

Choosing her team for the Winter Palace is easy enough; Cassandra, Dorian and Varric. It’s perfect—two nobles, a merchant prince, and a good balance of skill sets.

They travel by caravan to the Winter Palace, and Josephine runs her through last-minute paces every single night, the two of them dancing together inside a nearly empty tent big enough to hold four war tables, their shadows cast large across the canvas.

On the evening of the event, her assistants lace her into her gown made of aquamarine blue silk brocade over plain white samite, corset pulled tight to her waist, tulle underskirt practically causing her voluminous skirts to explode where the corset ends, panel opening up the center of them. Neckline dropping in a scalloped, frothy ‘v’ from her shoulders to her cleavage, froth converging at the point between her breasts to leave her actual cleavage a bit more to the imagination. Sleeves ending tight in a scalloped pattern just below the elbow in current Orlesian fashion, pair of short, white leather gloves on her hands. 

One of the assistants suggests painting her face to cover up her vallaslin and Maren turns a glare on the woman so fierce that she stumbles back a pace. 

They make up her face in the traditional way, twist and tug at her hair, draping on the finishing touches before they present her in front of the mirror. Full, dramatic make up, hair braided upward into an elegant twist atop her head, a few strands curled in loose ringlets to frame her face, brilliantly cut tear-shaped diamonds dripping from her ears and twinkling at her throat, wearing a dress worthy of royalty, and she scarcely recognizes herself.

Josephine and Leliana look proud when they finally see her. Cullen’s eyes widen with surprise, and he stumbles about whatever it is he means to say for a few words before Leliana cuts in—

“He means you look stunning.”

“You do,” he agrees, so wholeheartedly that it almost makes the entire ordeal worth it.

“Thank you.”

She takes a good look at what he’s wearing for the first time, and _Creators_. His double-breasted coat is black-on-black brocade to where the shoulders slightly protrude outward, the sleeves white, his fingers encased in fitted black leather gloves that travel all the way to his elbow, and a gray sash with a delicate filigree pattern is draped from his left shoulder to his waist and then looped around it. The only things that aren’t intricately detailed are his tight fitting black pants and black leather boots, and he’s so insanely hot that it’s almost physically painful to endure.

“You look… like we might need a moment alone later.” Or an hour. Or five.

Cullen blinks at her once, and then he glances away, downward to one side, his mouth tugging in a pleased smirk while Leliana and Josephine chuckle.

“Well,” Leliana says after a moment, “we should go meet the carriage, no?”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winter Palace is coming up in two parts, each of them as long as this chapter. There are a lot of important things happening with Maren right now, and the elves' future is chief among them. I expect to have both parts posted this weekend. I just need to finish the dance scene at the end of the second part.
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there with me! (:


	32. Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Part 1

Gaspard turns out to be more handsome and charming than she’d imagined, hand closing around hers, lips pressed against her knuckles, not affected by her presence one way or another. It’s been some time since she met someone who wasn’t, and he earns points just for that.

He leads her into the vestibule and on into the ballroom, where she works hard to keep her expression neutral as her ‘accomplishments’ are announced, working even harder when she finds out Cassandra has at least five middle names, each more ridiculous than the last. 

She approaches the Empress and thinks that she should feel more nervous, but there’s nothing except a sense of pervading calm.

*

Her sense of calm lasts through speaking with Leliana and exploring the palace, finding stairwells and other secretive places from which to eavesdrop on the nobles. Through smiling while noblemen whine about their petty problems, overhearing snide comments about her being an elf, aware that talk of her behavior is traveling through the entire party at a rate too fast to track.

She’s calm right up until the moment she goes to speak with Cullen and sees the crowd of preying nobles around him, uncertain what to think until one of them actually has the nerve to _grab his ass_? Anger so primal it feels like instinct hits her fast and hard, hand curling into a fist inside her glove—

Fingers close expertly around her wrist, pushing her arm down and pulling her in close. “It’s all right. I can handle it,” Cullen’s voice is low. “You have more important things to do.”

“Commander Cullen,” the Orlesian girl giggles, perhaps overhearing a bit of their conversation, “the _important_ people are over here.”

“Say the word, I’ll kill her where she stands,” Maren promises, eyes narrowing, flicking up to meet his. “One spell. That’s all it would take.”

“She isn’t worth the trouble it would cause,” Cullen assures her. “But I appreciate the thought.”

She wants to kiss him, lipstick leaving smudged marks that tell everyone he belongs to _her_. “Who are these people?”

“I don’t know,” he says, clearly not happy about it. “But they won’t leave me alone.”

“Not enjoying the attention then?” He’s just confirming what she’d already thought.

“Hardly. Anyway, yours,” he pauses, clearing his throat, voice barely above a whisper and honey sweet as he continues, looking her in the eye, “yours is the only attention worth having.”

She sighs, fight draining out of her with his heartfelt words. She doesn’t need the reassurance of his feelings, but she has to admit, it’s nice to hear. “I suppose I am being a little… overprotective.” 

“A feeling I suspect I’m going to share more than a few times before the night is over.” His eyes linger on her, looking her slowly up and down once. She’s suddenly aware of the light pressure of his gloved hand still wrapped around her wrist, the effortless way he’d captured the punch she’d started to throw, and she’s fairly sure neither of those things should be as hot as they are, but here she is.

“All right,” she says, trying not to shudder as she takes a breath. “You can let go now.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, corner of his mouth quirking.

He’s teasing her about her temper, she knows that, but fenedhis, he’s dressed like _this_ and looking at her like **that** and holding on to her like—fuck.

She manages to find her voice, and though it’s not entirely steady, she thinks she sells it. “If you were trying to distract me from killing people, it worked.”

“I was being honest,” he assures her, releasing his hold on her. “But,” he adds, lips curving in a wry smile, “if it keeps you from setting people on fire, I’ll count it as a bonus.”

She takes another breath, smoothing her dress as she eyes the sea of hungry faces gathered around him. “See if you still feel that way in a couple of hours.”

“Maker grant me strength,” he sighs.

*

She’s a bit surprised by the amount of information she’s found so far, most of it implicating Gaspard as being duplicitous about his actions at the ball, though she does find out a bit about Briala as well. 

She’s just returning to the ballroom, hurrying get there before she’s been missed for too long when a woman wearing a dark gown made saunters up to her, hips swaying back and forth inside her skirts. She’s dressed in provocative shades of purple and black and the colors alone make her stand out, wearing none of the pastels favored by the Orlesians. Loose black hair frames her face in the front, her strange golden eyes meeting Maren’s.

She introduces herself as Morrigan and Maren doesn’t completely dislike her, but she doesn’t trust her at all. Beyond the fact that she doesn’t trust _anyone_ here that didn’t arrive with her, there’s something in the way Morrigan moves and speaks that’s casually predatory. Still, Morrigan gives Maren the key to the servant’s quarters, though Maren suspects she has her own reasons for wanting to help.

She’s on her way to speak with Celene’s ladies-in-waiting, casting an eye in Cullen’s direction to check in on how he’s doing, passing by just as a nobleman asks, “Are you married, Commander?”

“Not yet,” Cullen answers, “but I am… already taken.”

“Still single, then?” the nobleman insists, and it would make her blood boil if the words had done more than barely register.

She’d stopped dead in her tracks at Cullen’s answer. Not yet? He could have just said, “No, but I am already taken.” But he’d specifically said, “Not yet.” Creators. Has he been… considering it? Or at least considering it as a future possibility? 

It hadn’t even occurred to her to consider it, much less what she might say one day, if he asked.

A nobleman brushes past her with an irritated toss of his head and she realizes she’s blocking the way through the crowd. This is yet another thing she’ll have to file away to think about later, and she’s probably just over-thinking it, anyway. She steps forward, walking to the corner of the room where the three mysterious ladies who finish each other’s sentences are gathered.

She speaks to Briala after that, finding her on the balcony just to the right of the ladies-in-waiting, and Maren had really hoped she would like her. Briala’s just as much a player of the Game as anyone else here, though, and granted, she probably has to be, given that’s apparently how things work in Orlais, but Maren is still disappointed. Even so, Briala does seem to have the elves’ best interests at heart, and that’s what’s important.

Afterward, she goes to gather Cassandra, Varric and Dorian to investigate the servant’s quarters.

*

The evidence against Gaspard is turning out to be damning—almost _suspiciously_ so. Not for one second does she believe the man would be so sloppy as to leave a dagger with his crest on it in a member of the council’s body. That’s an obvious set up. But there are other things.

Once again, she’s waylaid at the ballroom door as she returns.

*

She puts everything Josephine taught her into the dance with Florianne, parrying the woman’s questions with questions of her own, twirling and spinning and stepping with her feet as much as her words. The human woman is larger than her, but she leads effortlessly, anyway, sweeping Florianne into a dip as the band finishes the song. The collective gasp of appreciation from the audience tells her that she’d learned her lessons well.

Josephine seems happy with her performance, and then Cullen and Leliana join them to discuss what she’d found out.

To her surprise, it’s Leliana who brings up the idea of letting Celene die. Is Leliana absorbing the brunt of backlash so Maren doesn’t have to if she chooses to let Celene die? To her disbelief, Cullen agrees that Celene needn’t remain on the throne. All the days she’d spent wanting to ask for his opinion but being too afraid of what he might think of her. She should have known better. He’s not an assassin like Leliana, but he’s more than used to making tough decisions where other people’s lives are concerned. 

_“Does it ever get any easier?”_

_“Never.”_

But they do what they have to do.

It’s only Josephine who seems taken aback, who argues for Celene’s life and right to the throne. Dear, sweet, Josephine, who can end marriages with a flick of her wrist and less regret, and she is without question, the best of the four of them.

Maren decides she needs to infiltrate the royal wing before making a decision.

*

She spends a little while investigating the main areas, eavesdropping and returning what she’s learned to Leliana, and she finds that the noble opinion of her has increased dramatically. No one can sing her praises high enough, and she begins to find it difficult moving the rooms without being stopped for conversations. They want to know about her dress, if she’d chosen the fabric herself, which fabrics she favors for the upcoming season, if she’s involved with anyone, and any other number of other personal questions.

One noble, Lord Harrault—though he insists she call him Pierre—is particularly persistent, flirting with her and insisting she simply must come visit his summer chateau. Dressed in gold and garish yellow and adorned in a gold mask with hawk shaped nose, and he takes her hand and kisses her knuckles when she politely declines his offer to dance and excuses herself. He assures her he will be in touch through her Ambassador.

She returns to Cullen then, to see what progress they’ve made in obtaining the key to the royal wing, and sees him still surrounded by a group of interested nobles. She guesses she honestly can’t blame them—look at him. He’s utterly gorgeous to begin with and hotter than anything has a right to be in his black silk damask jacket, cut tailored to fit him perfectly, hugging his muscles, clinging to his waist, color an ideal contrast to his pale skin, white sleeves a flawless complement to the rest, hands encased in high-quality, fitted black leather to the elbow, and who _wouldn’t_ want those hands all over them?

And well, she can’t really get his hands all over her, here, but there is one thing they can maybe do, later. She tries to take a deep breath, but the corset doesn’t really allow for much—who thought up these torture devices, anyway?—and walks up to him.

“I don’t suppose you’d save a dance for me?” she asks, as he turns to greet her.

“No, thank you,” he replies.

“Oh.” She feels like an idiot for asking, now, and she’s sure it shows in her tone.

“No—I didn’t mean to—Maker’s breath! I’ve answered that question so many times I’m rejecting it automatically,” his tone conveys his apology. “I’m not one for dancing. The Templars never attended balls.”

She’s disappointed, certainly, but she tries not to let it show in her face, tries for levity, instead. “Too bad. I’d be the envy of everyone here.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re kind to say so.”

She looks around at his group of admirers wordlessly before looking back to him, raising her brows as she meets his eyes.

“That’s… hardly everyone.” He glances away from her, flustered.

She isn’t sure how he can still be adorable in _that_ outfit. All right, back to business, before she gets distracted. 

“Have someone meet me outside the door to the royal wing when you have the key,” she tells him.

"As soon as we have it," he promises.

  
  



	33. Interlude

Moonlight streams in through the windows outside the royal wing, white where it splashes across the couches and statues set in front of it, their sharp edges lost to darkness, rest of the hall lit in shades of deep blue that fade to black. She settles somewhere between the shadows and hues of blue, leaning back against a white and gold pillar, waiting long minutes while she listens to the distant chatter below.

She finds out more about the lyrium market in Orzammar than she ever needed to know, catches a few snippets about reports in the Imperium that don’t make any sense—to her as much as the person speaking, apparently—and overhears what sounds like a lover’s quarrel between two noblemen. That could be useful to Leliana if they weren’t doing it so loudly that it seems like they’re _trying_ to attract attention.

Finally she hears footsteps to her left, turning her head. The person approaching her is backlit by the yellow light from below, and she gets a glimpse of a man, silhouetted broad shoulders tapering to a perfectly proportioned waist before they step into the shadow of the hall. She reaches down with her right hand, out of his line of sight, hiking up the tulle of her skirts in the back until she can reach the knife strapped to the outside of her thigh, fingers closing around the hilt and sliding it free, just in case.

Skirts slithering back into place, and she holds the knife hilt loosely in her hand, blade pressed against the back of her wrist, rising halfway up her inner forearm. If he’s another assassin, she’s only going to have a split second to cast barrier before she tries going for the kill, and even then, her odds aren’t great without casting noisier spells or using the power of the mark. He’s close, very close now. Her fingers flex against the grip of the knife, hoping it’s someone from the Inquisition, bringing her the key.

“Maren?” Cullen’s voice, and relief floods through her veins.

“Fenedhis, Cullen,” she hisses, fist relaxing. “You could have said something sooner. I was ready to stab you in the throat.” She steps from the inky blackness so he can see her better, breathing out a long breath, flipping the knife outward between her fingers and reaching back for her skirts. It’s a lot more difficult to hitch them up one-handed while holding a knife, and she curses again, reaching across with her other hand. She can’t quite reach far enough, though, can’t get the right angle, and well, sheathing her blade after the fact wasn’t something she’d thought much about. 

Gloved fingers touch her wrist, barest pressure, like asking for permission. “You’ll damage your dress. Let me help.”

She can see him in the half-light, white light tugging at the edge of his features, the musculature of him, the rest shaded into blue across the swell of his lips, the curve of his eyelid, fading gradually into shadow. Single hazel eye illuminated by moonlight, pale, glowing copper color that should be cold as a coin, but it isn’t, warming her like fire. 

She lets go of her skirts, turning the knife within her hand until she can present it to him, hilt extended.

He takes it from her, kneeling down to catch the edges of her skirt in his other hand, and she expects him to lift them up only as far as he has to before he sheathes her knife. And then his fingers slip beneath her skirt, encircling her calf lightly before he slides upward slowly, gloved fingertips tracing a path, feeling for the strap, hesitating when he finds it, hand closing around, his thumb pressing close to her inner thigh.

She knows it’s dark where they are in the hallway, and it does make more sense to find it by touch than by sight, but does he have any _idea_ …? Creators, he’s still on one knee in front of her, and she bites down against her lower lip, tries not to make a sound.

He sets the blade to rest between his teeth, reaching out with his other hand to lift her skirts just high enough that he can see where his fingers rest against her. He lets go of her thigh, then, taking the blade from his mouth and re-sheathing it, knuckles shifting and turning against her skin, and she’s sure he doesn’t mean for any of it to be sensual, but fenedhis he’s driving her a little crazy at this point. He makes sure it’s fully sheathed and then he releases her skirts, rising to his feet.

She exhales, shaky, not even realizing until now that she’d been holding her breath. “Thank you,” she manages.

“Of course,” Cullen replies, his voice husky in a way that tells her she’s not the only one affected.

Their eyes meet in the near-darkness and she feels it like a bolt of electricity, energy dancing on the air between them, thick and heavy, winding around them and pulling them inexorably closer together.

She lets it draws her in, moving closer to him, whispering, “I suppose it would… be improper to make out in a darkened hallway while we’re on a mission.”

His hands grasp her waist and he steps up to her, murmuring, “Completely inappropriate,” in agreement before his mouth closes over hers. Tongue sweeping into her mouth, hot, wet, wicked twist against hers, and she moans into him, gets her hands on his shoulders and pulls him backward into the shadows until her back meets the pillar she’d been leaning against earlier.

He takes advantage of the leverage, kissing in deeper, pressing against her in his double-breasted coat, and she wants to strip off her gloves, run her hands all over him, feel his musculature through the rich damask silk brocade, wants to feel his fingers touch her hot, bare skin with those leather gloves. The feel of him, the smell of him, filling her senses, him kissing down into her insistently, tongue plundering her mouth, and she can barely breathe with how badly she wants him—right here, right now, him taking her against the wall of the Winter Palace, and damn the guests within hearing distance.

Hands riding down the curve of his spine, fingers resting against the upper curve of his ass, and Creators, it’s as muscular as the rest of him, firm and perfectly rounded. She slides her hands lower, palms molding to the shape, squeezing lightly. He gives a muffled grunt, teeth nipping her lower lip, and she gasps in surprise, shivering, tries to pull his hips against hers. He drags his mouth from hers, then, breathing hard as he draws back, looking down at her.

“We… we should…” he breathes out, ragged. He looks away from her and sighs. “I should get back to the party.”

She takes a measured breath and holds it for a long instant, exhaling slowly as she tries to drag herself into the present. She lifts one hand, still shaky, fingertips rising to touch the underside of his chin, leading him back down for another kiss, and he lets her. Slow, this time, and he pulls her from the pillar, wrapping his arms around her body and crushing her close, kissing her passionate and sweet. Less intent, less need, but just as heartfelt.

This time when he draws back, they’re both breathing fairly normally again, and she can feel his lips smile against hers. After a moment, he leans away from her, hand reaching into his jacket pocket, and then he catches her hand between both of his, settling the shape of a key against her palm, closing her fingers around it 

He touches her face, then, leaning to press a final, gentle kiss to her lips. “Please, be careful.”

“Always,” she whispers.

He lingers for a moment longer and then his fingers glide from her cheek and he walks back toward the stairs.

He’ll have people let Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian know everything is ready and to meet her here, and she’s grateful that she has a few minutes before they arrive, twisting and readjusting the curled strands of hair around her face and wiping around the shape of her lips to remove any smeared lipstick. Finally, she decides her appearance is as good as it's going to get.

She smooths her skirts and settles in to wait for the rest of her group, trying to ignore the wetness between her thighs.

  
  



	34. Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Part 2

“Are we going to sneak around to look through the Empress’ unmentionables now?” Varric asks as they enter the main hall where the royal bedrooms are. “Just how drunk are you, boss?”

He sounds skeptical, amused and somewhat impressed, and it’s probably the first time something has genuinely made her smile since she’d arrived.

*

They check every room they can find, fighting harlequins along the way, and she finally has enough leverage to force all three them to do whatever she wants, but they’re all of such equal underhandedness that none of them comes out cleaner than another.

Florianne is waiting for them in the courtyard when they exit, and Maren isn’t really surprised. Florianne’s behavior on the dance floor earlier had really been overplaying her hand a bit. And if she thinks a few assassin archers and a fade rift are going to stop them then she’s severely underestimating her enemy. 

Despair demon, rage demon, two wraiths, terror demon, two archers, and that’s all she has time to see before Dorian casts barrier on all of them and she ducks behind a pillar, drinking down a regeneration potion before stepping back out to cast immolate on the despair demon. The air is alight with frost and fire, explosions bright in the darkness, purple electricity crackling on the air as Dorian catches the despair demon in a static cage and she has a split second to be grateful that Dorian had decided to switch his skills from fire to lightning when he noticed she was taking Solas with her more than him. 

She keeps moving, keeping just ahead of the terror demon that she knew was going to materialize underneath her, and tosses a jar of bees on the despair demon. Cassandra and Varric are focused on the rage demon, Varric doing a backward flip through the air to avoid being hit by a rush of flame. Cassandra withstands it like the badass she is, calling down a spell purge.

The archers and the wraiths are doing their best to exhaust the barrier on her, and she casts her own barrier spell on her and Dorian before throwing a fire mine under the panicking despair demon and positioning pull of the abyss to pull in the archers and one of the wraiths as well. The air swirls and roars, sucking them inexorably to the center, and she has just enough time to see the fire mine explode, throwing bodies in the air and finishing off the despair demon before the terror demon climbs out of the ground beneath her, knocking her flat on her back.

It takes her two tries to get to her feet and return the favor with a stonefist, knocking it on its ass and moving out of its range while her mana replenishes. 

An arrow pierces her then, taking her through the shoulder in the instant before Dorian casts barrier on both of them, and she staggers backward, crying out. She knows from experience if she doesn’t hurry, the regeneration potion will heal her body around it and then it will be even more painful to remove. She casts veilstrike on the terror demon, air concussing outward around it and planting its ass firmly back on the ground as it tries to rise. Then she reaches back and grabs the arrowhead, snapping it off and yanking the shaft free with a scream of pain, feeling it grate against the bone. 

Cassandra’s on the terror demon by then, Varric finishing off the last wraith before they all turn their efforts to the terror demon. It goes down fast with all four of them focused on it. 

The sickly green crystal hanging above them begins to shift rapidly, exploding into paler green light that extends in six arms, and she casts dispel on one before Dorian does the same to another, Varric sucking down a healing potion as they prepare for round two.

Only four demons this time, but they turn out to be two rage demons, a wraith and another fucking despair demon.

Dorian casts barrier and they’re off again.

It doesn’t go nearly as smoothly in the second round, half of her spells useless against the two rage demons. She manages to take down the despair demon, but not before it sends Varric to the ground, unconscious and frozen in a rime of ice. She gets him back on his feet just in time for Dorian to go down in the flames of a roaring rage demon. She really should have learned the revival spell, she thinks as she skirts around the demon, trying to rouse Dorian the hard way.

The wraith is fixated on her, shooting her with fire-laced fade energy fed to it by the rage demons, and without Dorian to help keep their barrier spells up, she can feel her health literally burning away while she tries to wake Dorian. She’s fading, world beginning to gray out when Dorian gets back on his feet. She manages to get up a barrier spell just before she falls unconscious, reaching for a healing potion and draining it.

She shoots stonefist at the wraith, feels clean burn bring it back to her fingertips, ready to be cast again, and hits it again. It finally disintegrates, energy sucked back into the fade rift.

Cassandra slays one of the rage demons and it erupts in purple flame, roaring fire at its brethren as one of Dorian’s dead spirits possesses it. Within moments, the final rage demon is dead and she reaches out, green energy pouring from her palm as she closes the rift.

*

They make it through with two healing potions left and most of their regeneration potions, but she takes the time to double back to a supply cache she’d found earlier. She suspects they’re going to need everything they’ve got for the fight with Florianne. 

They fight their way through a few more harlequin assassins on the way out, and when they emerge into the vestibule, Cullen is waiting for them.

Time to decide.

There are no good choices here, she knows that. All she can do is go with her gut and hope an old elven locket means as much as she thinks it does. If it doesn’t, she’s still got enough dirt on Celene to force the Empress into working with Briala. As for Florianne, there’s no mercy in her heart for anyone willingly carrying out Corypheus’ plans. 

She sends Cullen to detain the Duchess.

*

Florianne retreats to the garden and they follow. From the moment they engage, Maren is set upon by several soldiers, and by the time she manages to get them away from her with her rift magic, she’s bleeding from half a dozen cuts. She reaches for mana to cast a barrier spell—

Twin blades drive down from behind into the soft space between her collarbone and shoulder blades with jagged, searing agony that ends mercifully quickly in blackness.

When she opens her eyes again, it’s some time later, Dorian’s revival spell lifting her from the ground and setting her gently on her feet. She downs a healing potion to finish the job and then casts barrier, assessing the situation. All of the soldiers are down, and there don’t appear to be any assassins left, although it’s difficult to say for sure. Cassandra’s upper body is slumped over where she stands, knocked out by an arrow.

They’ve been fighting hard for over an hour now, wave after wave of Venatori and harlequins, then the demons at the rift, and now this. They’re all of them tired, beaten down, worn out, and several of them have almost died. And for what—a bunch of petty fucking nobles that aren’t even worth the effort? That can’t work out their issues without her help but would turn on her in an instant if it served them? Their blood could turn the ground red and no one here would give a _damn_.

There’s no rage in her, though, not even a spark of anger. No, what she feels right now is pure, cold, calm certainty.

Florianne crouches low to the ground, one hand planted between her feet, muscles in her legs coiling to propel her body up and backward, locking down and then launching—

Maren calls on the power of the mark, feels it sing in her blood and surge through her hand, green light exploding around Florianne, catching her body in mid backward-leap, spine arched, hips pointed toward the sky, body moving in slow motion through the air, and then Maren drops pull of the abyss on her to keep her there.

The air crackles as Dorian summons lightning, Varric loads up a crossbow bolt, and Maren walks to where one of the fallen soldiers lies dead, wrenching the longsword from his hand. She steps inside the swirling emerald vortex of air, and it feels strange, a storm inside a void as she walks beneath Florianne’s frozen form, bending at the knee and thrusting upward with both hands, all her strength shoved behind.

The blade pierces Florianne’s midsection, ricocheting off her spine before it passes through without obstruction. Blood begins to drain from her body in a slow, dark cloud and Maren twists the hilt with all her might, giving it one last push before she lets go. She steps outside the swirling green light, Florianne’s body a black silhouette hanging impaled in the air for a moment.

The power of the mark evaporates first, wind dying down an instant later, and Florianne falls gracelessly to the ground in a splatter of blood, body hitting with a hard thunk and sharp clang against stone, driving the sword even deeper. 

The courtyard is quiet, save the chirping of crickets and night birds in the far-off distance… and then Florianne coughs.

The sound is weak, feeble, and Maren steps forward, kneeling down to look at her.

Even now her lips move, twitching and coated in blood, trying to form the syllables of Corypheus’ name.

“And here I thought dying might finally make you say something interesting,” Maren remarks. She reaches for the knife at the back of her belt and thrusts it through Florianne’s temple. Florianne goes instantly still, and she yanks the blade back out, cleaning it on the other woman’s leather armor before sheathing it.

She rises and turns on her heel to find her companions all standing there, staring at her in varying states of amazement. Or shock. It could also possibly be shock. She’s too tired and too done too care. 

“Let’s finish this,” she says, walking past them.

*

She wants to ask Celene to spare Gaspard’s life, doesn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s death. It doesn’t seem right, condemning a man to death for doing nothing worse than Celene or Briala had done, but it’s clear she’s going to have to allow Gaspard to be executed if there is to be any sort of lasting peace. Creators she’s so tired.

“I couldn’t have done all this without Briala’s help,” she tells Celene, and that doesn’t feel entirely true, but if it gets Briala back in Celene’s good graces, then it’ll do.

The looks and words they exchange tell Maren she’s accomplished a bit more than that. And well… if that makes them happy, great. As long as the elves get some representation and Orlais doesn’t fall into chaos, Maren couldn’t care less how they make it happen.

Celene does more than Maren expects though, when she grants Briala the title Marquise of the Dales and pronounces her a member of the royal court. Celene introduces her and Briala makes quite a lengthy speech about elves and humans working together, and for a moment, Maren feels like all of this might have been worth it, after all.

When they both look at her, expecting her to speak, Maren manages to find a few words about working together to bring about peace, and then she lets Celene finish things out.

Finally. It’s finally done.

  
  



	35. For You, I'll Try

Her robes are a mess, and she’s so tired she just lets her assistants fuss over her, clean her up, get her back in her gown, fix her hair and make-up until they declare her a vision and send her back to the party. What she wants is to sleep for about a week, but the ball is still going and seems like it will be for a while longer. 

She compromises, finding an empty balcony just within listening range of the band.

When Morrigan finds her and tells her Celene has made her liaison to the Inquisition, Maren doesn’t protest or ask her a single question, just puts on the same game face she’s been wearing all night and welcomes her to the Inquisition. She can deal with Morrigan later if the woman becomes a problem.

Morrigan departs with a gracious tilt of her head and Maren leans heavily on the railing again. Creators, she’s so tired her eyes are tearing up. 

“There you are. Everyone’s been looking for you.” Cullen’s voice from behind her.

“Things have calmed down for the moment,” he says, settling his arms on the railing next to her and tilting his head down to look at her with concern. “Are you all right?”

She brushes away a tear escaping the corner of her left eye, and pushes back from the railing a bit to look at him. “I’m just worn out. Tonight has been very long,” she tells him, leaning her elbows on the railing and letting her head sink down between her shoulders for a moment before she turns her face to look at him. 

“For all of us,” he says, taking one elbow from the railing and pushing up on the other to see her more clearly. “I’m glad it’s over.” He reaches out settling a hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s foolish, but I was worried for you tonight.”

She reaches up, patting his hand on her shoulder. 

From inside comes the sound of applause, and he turns his head toward the sound momentarily, looking back to her with a crooked grin as he says, “I may never have another chance like this, so I must ask.”

He steps away from the railing, hand leaving her shoulder to gesture toward the open balcony.

She turns her neck to follow his movement and he steps one foot backward, upper body leaning forward in a half bow so he can look her directly in the eye, one hand extended toward her, fingers relaxed and open. “May I have this dance, my lady?”

He looks like a prince in those clothes, with the charming manners to match.

“Of course.” She turns, placing her hand in his, not caring how tired she is. “I thought you didn’t dance?”

He pulls her to him, eyes never leaving hers as his other arm circles her waist.

“For you,” he says, leading as he turns her, “I’ll try.”

Her heart melts a little, and he steps forward left, then forward right, then again, and again as he turns her in a slow square, and it’s nothing like the complicated dance she’d performed on the floor with Florianne earlier, it’s an easy, comfortable rhythm and she falls into it effortlessly. Feels the soul weary tiredness and the weight of the night slip from her, comforted inside the circle his arms.

“You’re not nearly as bad at this as you led me to believe,” she says, smile twisting her lips.

“I appreciate the flattery.” His mouth curls in a small smirk. “But I’ve seen you dance. You could literally dance circles around me.”

“No. This is nice. This is… perfect,” she says, smiling up at him before she rests her cheek against his chest, closing her eyes as they step together in time to the music.

After a few minutes, the song ends, and he slows their movement to a gradual halt. She lifts her face from his chest, opening her eyes and peering up at him.

He takes both her hands in his and steps backward, looking at her. His eyes linger over her features, and then travel down the length of her gown before returning to meet her gaze. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

“Absolutely none,” she replies, grinning. “You should probably tell me all about it. Several times.”

He chuckles, low and throaty. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you all night.”

“I know the feeling,” she tells him, looking him up and down, eyes mischievous and suggestive.

The answering glint in his eyes is wicked and playful. “You said something earlier about needing a moment alone with me? I believe we have one now. Or as close as we’re likely to get.”

She’s marveling at the shift in him, how comfortable he seems, teasing, playful and even a bit naughty, and she isn’t sure what’s changed—maybe the line they got close to crossing earlier changed some boundaries. Whatever it is, she’s not going to waste time wondering.

She smirks and walks backward, tugging him with her until her back meets the stone between the vast windows, and wraps her arms around him. She peels the gloves from her fingers, letting them fall to the ground, running her hands over the muscles in his upper back, and it feels as glorious as she’d imagined; soft, sleek, rich fabric against the firmness of him.

“Creators, you feel… amazing,” she breathes. 

“The jacket… or me?” he asks, amused.

“You, in this jacket,” she answers, enthusiastic, lifting her mouth to kiss him.

“I’m glad you like it,” he murmurs, and then opens to her, warm, slick tangling of tongues, sweet, hot give and take that seems to go on forever, her hands roving up and down the length of his spine, tracing out the musculature on either side. 

When they finally stop kissing long enough to catch their breath, he’s smirking at her.

“Satisfied?” he asks with a teasing lilt to his voice.

“Never,” she chuckles. 

“Was there something else you wanted?” And Mythal save her, the sheer, sexy _suggestiveness_ in his tone is nearly painful. But this isn’t like it was in the darkened hallway earlier, no edge of desperation to sharpen the moment into urgency. This is languid and sexy in an entirely different way.

Well… actually, there is one other thing…

“It, um… might seem a little odd…” But she trusts him, doesn’t she?

“Anything,” he assures her.

_Really? Anything? You might want to be a little more discerning._

But she doesn’t push her luck, reaches down to where his hand is fitted to her waist, lifting it to her neck, closing her eyes and closing his fingers around the side of her neck, then moving his hand slowly downward and around, letting his fingers trail over her throat, down, out across her collarbone, back to the center of her breastbone, lower, his hand and warm, buttery leather against her bare skin, and she shivers lightly, fingertips grazing the tops of her breasts before she stops, opening her eyes.

“The gloves?” he asks, intently curious.

“Mmm… and what’s in them.”

He raises his brows at her in mild surprise for an instant, and then his mouth pulls in a roguish smile. “Well, then.”

He leans to kiss her again, his fingertips tracing light patterns against her breastbone, up over the fluttering of her pulse and back down, continuously moving as he kisses her with deliberate slowness, chills singing through her in delicious bursts. Finally he rests his hand, palm flat against the base of her throat, thumb and forefinger forming a ‘v’ around the hollow, kissing out gradually, until her heart stops thundering in her chest and she feels like she can cling to him a little less tightly.

His lips leave hers, hand pulling from her skin last. “Was that… how you imagined?”

“Mmhmm,” she hums happily, winding her arms around his neck. “Although, in my version, I was wearing considerably less clothing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” His voice is a teasing, husky promise, and Creators he’s beautiful and sexy, just the slightest bit disheveled and she doesn’t think she could adore him any more than she does. 

“Was there anything _you_ wanted?” She tilts her head at him, curious.

“Right now,” his eyes are warm as they hold on hers, “just you.”

Her breath catches in her chest, heart in her throat, and she’s not sure ‘adore’ is a strong enough word for what she feels right now. If she’s honest, she thinks maybe it hasn’t been a strong enough word for quite some time now.

“The band is winding down,” he says, voice low. He smiles at her, fingers curling beneath her chin, thumb catching against the point. “One last turn on the dance floor, my lady?”

“I’d love to.”

He gathers her into his arms, then, pulling her tight against him, her cheek pressed to his chest, his chin resting atop her head, the two of them swaying back and forth to the music as they turn in a slow circle. Warmth of him against her, wrapped up in his arms, and she’s not sure she’s ever been this happy, so filled with emotion that her chest nearly aches.

“Cullen... thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he whispers, squeezing her lightly.

But she does. She does, even if she can’t quite explain why, yet.

She closes her eyes, smiling against him as they spin in slow circles beneath the moon.

  
  



	36. Trust

Cullen walks her arm in arm to the carriage, opening the door for her, waiting for Leliana and Josephine to enter before he follows, sliding into the seat beside her. 

She leans her head against his shoulder, snuggling in, and he wraps an arm around her.

She sleeps most of the way back to camp, rousing only when Cullen leads her from the carriage, leaving her in her bedroll with a kiss and whisper of goodnight.

She sleeps, dreamless and content.

*

The next day, she debriefs her advisors, and she’s thoroughly done with the Winter Palace, Celene, Briala, Gaspard, the Game and Orlais in its entirety. Why the fuck did anyone ever decide Orlais should be allowed to become a country? Who looks at that mess and thinks let’s build a country on this model? 

Fuck, she doesn’t even have the energy to be disgusted about it anymore. 

"I expect my version of events has been recorded?"

"Of course, Inquisitor," Josephine assures her.

*

It's the third night of their travel, within a day of Skyhold, when she meets with them again to go over war table missions on the equivalent of the war table.

Josephine and Leliana nod as they depart from the tent, but Cullen lingers, as does she.

"Lake Calenhad _does_ look like a bunny." She shakes her head, biting down against her lower lip. Her fingertips circle the location on the map, wondering how he can joke about it. 

Circle tower rising in shadow from misty water, and she can see it, clear as she had in her dream.

Her _dream_.

Her eyes go wide with realization.

"What is it?" he asks, stepping close to her.

Creators. The dream she’d had—she’d _dreamed_ about him being tortured by a demon in the Circle tower, the night _before_ he’d told her he was actually tortured in the Circle tower.

But how? She couldn’t have known… couldn’t even have imagined such a scenario. Could she?

"I…" she begins, voice catching, halting as she pulls her thoughts together. "After Adamant, the night before you returned to Skyhold… I had a dream about you. You were in the Circle tower, being tortured by a Desire demon. It had a woman’s face… a woman who was important to you. Someone you cared for. And you held strong, didn’t believe it was her… and then… it transformed again, and it had _my_ face. But I…" she shakes her head, not understanding how this can be possible. "I didn’t know about the demons at the Circle tower, then, so how could I have…?"

There’s a long silence as she tries to put the pieces together, and then Cullen speaks up, voice low and filled with surprise, "That was my dream."

Her eyes fly to him in shock. "What?" Understanding hits like a thunderclap, shaking her to the core, threatening to crush her under its weight, her eyes wide, terror working its way through her veins. "No. I couldn’t have—I _wouldn’t_ have. I _didn’t_. I would never push my way into your dreams, not ever."

"I know." His voice is quiet, and she doesn’t understand why he’s so calm. Maybe it hasn’t sunk in yet.

"Then how--?"

"I… must have been open to you being there." The words leave him slowly, as if he’s evaluating them carefully.

"Are you saying…? What _are_ you saying?" she asks, shaking her head in confusion.

"I don’t understand it any more than you do. Probably less," he adds, wry. "But," his voice softens as he goes on, "you said you walked into Solas’ dream without knowing, because he welcomed you. Perhaps the same thing happened with me."

She’s speechless for a long moment. Demons had gotten inside his mind, messed with his head. It’s no wonder that he’d reacted like he had when she’d told him about being able to enter other people’s dreams. And now… he’s standing here telling her… "And you’re okay with that?"

"If I weren’t, you wouldn’t have been there." He sounds more certain of himself now, and she can’t wrap her mind around it.

"But… after what happened to you…" She shakes her head. "How can you…?"

"Marenowin," he whispers her full name, touching her cheek, and she stills. "I trust you."

She stares at him, entranced by his eyes, honey flecked hazel holding her fast.

"Enough to walk in your dreams?" Her voice is a low, trembling whisper.

"I… yes," he breathes back, bending to kiss her.

Hands closing around his face, pulling him down, breathing out hard against the feel of him, the sweet curl of his tongue against hers, circling slow, arms closing tight around her, pulling her closer, driving down deeper into her and she rises up, answers, muffled sound against his mouth, and Creators—

What is this? This thing that they’re doing? Because it’s so far beyond anything else she’s ever done, so far beyond anything else she’s ever _known_. She’s never trusted anyone like she trusts him and that would be enough, but after what had happened to him, for him to trust _her_ , to trust her inside his dreams.

She draws back, sharp intake of breath shaped around his name, and she thinks they should make sense of this, but his hand rises up through her hair, tugs her gently back in, tongue swirling wickedly against hers, and she’s surprised at the insistence in him. He’s always been intense with his affections, but he always pulls back at a certain point. This is… he’s kissing her with heat and need, like he doesn’t ever want to stop, and Creators, she’s lost in him, kissing back until she’s breathless, nearly senseless.

Heart pounding, blood running hot in her veins, and his hand trails down her throat, over her collarbone, lower, fingertips gliding downward, cupping her rib cage before sliding upward, his palm fitting around the firm swell of her breast. He's never touched her like this, with such intent, with so much want, his mouth a hot smear against hers, and Creators, she wants him, has wanted him for so damned long that she can hardly believe it's happening now. Pulling in a breath, hand closing around his, squeezing lightly around the outside, every press of her fingers asking for more, thumb hooking through his, tugging it inward, pad brushing across her nipple through her clothes, sensitive nub hardening in response to his touch.

Long, sweet road to this, and they've earned it, they _deserve_ it.

She shudders, biting against his lower lip, surging up into him, kissing him hard and deep, noise of approval hummed into his mouth, hands moving to his waist, trying to get more of him against her. 

He seems to understand what she wants, other hand riding the curve of her hip around to her ass, palm molding to the roundness, fingertips digging lightly into the flesh as he pulls her flush against him, and fuck, she can feel him, hard length of him pressed against the cleft of her. Heat pooling low in her belly, rush of wetness between her thighs, and she wants him, Creators, she _needs_ him to—

"Commander," calls a voice from somewhere beyond them, Cullen pulling from her, breathing out into her mouth for an instant, his eyes darkened with want.

_Fenedhis, not now!_

He lets go of her, rounding on the soldier who’d interrupted them, and she genuinely fears for the man’s life.

"Red Templars sighted in the distance," the soldier blurts before Cullen even asks, probably in self-defense against Cullen’s death glare.

They reach for their weapons without question, in tandem, eyes meeting for an instant before they both step forward.

*

The group of red Templars is small, thankfully, and a short time later, they stand breathing out cold mist above a string of red lyrium mutated dead. Cullen kneels to the ground, wiping his blade against the snow to clean it, jaw tightening, shaking his head in disgust.

"Burn the bodies," he commands the soldiers around him, rising to his feet and sheathing his sword.

*

She follows him back toward camp, reaching for his hand halfway there, his fingers closing around hers, squeezing tight as she walks up alongside him.

"Are you all right?" she asks, glancing sidelong at him.

He breathes out hard, shaking his head in a tight motion. "I’ll be better once we cut off Samson’s red lyrium supply and he can’t make any more of these… _monstrosities_."

She knows how much it upsets him, feels a flash of guilt that she hasn’t dealt with the situation yet. "Sahrnia quarry is my first priority after we return to Skyhold," she promises him.

"This isn’t _your_ fault," he says, emphatic as he halts his step and turns to face her.

He must have heard the guilt in her voice. 

"Don’t mistake Samson’s actions for your own. I know how much you’ve given to the Inquisition. I’ve seen all the good you’ve done. And I know you’ll stop him."

She nods in response, having no doubts on that front. "I will." 

"So…" she says after a moment. "That battle sort of ruined the moment we were having."

Now _he_ looks guilty.

"I’m sorry. What happened…" He shakes his head, turning his face away from her. "Just because I… care for you, trust you, doesn’t mean you—I shouldn’t have..."

Her trusting him, is that what this is about? How can he not know?

She reaches up, fingers catching beneath his chin, bringing him back to look at her.

"Yes. You should have," she breathes, mouth rising to kiss him. "I may not understand why you trust me," she says, voice soft as she meets his eyes, "but I know you do. You should know; I trust you, too. More than anyone else I’ve ever known."

He stares at her in stunned silence for a long a moment, his eyes wide, and she wonders if she should have revealed quite so much—but she doesn’t care, lets him stare and doesn’t blink, because it’s the truth. 

"How can you?" The quiet disbelief and raw hope in his voice tear at her heart. "You’re a mage; I was a Templar who used to hate mages. I’m fighting a leash that could—no, _has_ left me unstable. You’ve _seen_ it. And we still don’t know what the long term effects may be. I could lose my mind or worse. How can you trust me?"

She smiles, thin, fragile twist to her lips. "I’m a mage; you’re a former Templar who was tortured for days by possessed mages. I’ve got a crazy mark on my hand that does all kinds of weird, magical shit, and we still don’t know how it might mutate in the future. And yet… you care for me, trust me enough to let me come to you in the _Fade_ , where we’re both most vulnerable."

"Yes," he breathes.

"Why is it so much crazier that I could trust you? What makes you so much more untrustworthy than me?"

He’s quiet for a long moment as he works through that. "I hadn’t considered…"

How like him, not to have considered. To have condemned himself without condemning her at all.

"Cullen," she whispers, holding his gaze, steady. "You don’t have to understand it. You just need to believe it. I can’t offer you undeniable proof like letting you walk in my dreams, but I _promise_ you, there is nowhere I feel safer than when I’m with you. More than anyone else I’ve ever known… More than I ever knew I was capable of… I _trust you_."

His eyes search hers for long heartbeats that seem to stretch forever.

"I…" he finally says, voice rough, eyes riveted on hers as he reaches up, one hand cupping her face. "I _don’t_ understand. But I believe you."

She covers his hand with her own against her cheek, mouth curving in a small smile.

He leans to kiss her, lips meeting hers briefly, breathing out the words, "Thank you."

"Commander," a voice calls from the direction of the camp.

Cullen draws back and sighs, and she takes his hand from her cheek, threading her fingers through his.

"Come on," she says, beginning to walk toward the camp.

  
  



	37. Leave That Chapter Out

They make it back to Skyhold in one piece, kissing goodbye, hands entwined, fingers squeezing so tight, and she…

She walks away, fingers trailing through his.

She wants to tell him, what he means, what he's worth.

 _Everything_ seems like too much. It seems ridiculous, and it is.

For as much as they know each other, there are limits… aren't there?

There have to be. There have to be, or…

Or what?

 

* 

She isn't given much time to consider it. She's practically accosted by a revered mother who tells her they need Leliana and Cassandra to leave the Inquisition and come to Val Royeaux as candidates to be the next Divine. The news leaves her stunned into wordlessness long enough that Josephine steps in smoothly to tell the revered mother that Leliana and Josephine are needed here. The revered mother pleads with Maren to consider the request and she agrees, knowing she won't allow either of them to leave until well after their business is concluded here. And that's if _they_ decide they want to be part of this circus. She knows the Chantry is important to both of them, but she can't imagine…

To her surprise, Cassandra seems to be considering it. She has come to care a great deal for Cassandra in the time they've spent together. She might even go so far as to say she loves Cassandra—she's certainly become like family. But though Cassandra seems to support some change in the Chantry's ways, it's not enough to satisfy Maren. She's not unkind about the situation, but she doesn't offer her support. Leliana on the other hand, seems flattered, but doubts she will be chosen. Knowing what she does about Leliana's beliefs so far, Maren holds her support in reserve just in case Leliana _is_ chosen as the next Divine, as insane as the idea might seem.

She checks in with everyone else after speaking with each of them. Varric is angry at his agent for lying to him about the popularity of his books in Orlais, which seems to remind him that he's done with the latest chapter of Swords & Shields he'd promised to write for Cassandra. Creators, she'd nearly forgotten all about it, with everything that had been going on. 

As promised, she brings Varric along to present the book himself. Cassandra seems angry with her at first, but there was no way Maren could have resisted this, and she takes full credit when Cassandra accuses her of it being all her fault. Varric dangles the book in front of Cassandra like a carrot before a horse and then starts to leave. Cassandra practically leaps after him, telling him to wait. She snatches the book from his hand, and after a brief debate about what should happen to the Knight Captain that ends with Cassandra snapping at Varric not to spoil it for her, she thanks Maren with such warm sincerity and honest, open appreciation that Maren feels her heart swell inside her chest. If she'd thought earlier that she might love Cassandra, she knows she does, now.

A moment later, she has to duck her head and bite down on the inside of her jaw to keep from laughing as Varric walks away saying, "Tell your friends…" then muttering, "if you have any." It's not a kind remark, but it fits with their usual bantering. Cassandra doesn't appear to hear it, though, too enraptured by the prospect of the new book to notice, and Maren counts it as a small mercy. 

She leaves Cassandra to her reading, feeling truly _good_ about something for the first time since Halamshiral. She follows Varric back to the table in the Hall he likes to sit at and write, wanting to thank him for doing her such a favor, for making Cassandra so happy.

He's sitting beneath the torches as usual, feathered quill clutched in his hand, appearing to be lost in whatever it is he's writing. She walks up behind him, stopping to stand just behind and off to one side of him. He still doesn't seem to notice her, and unable to help herself, she leans forward a bit, peering over his shoulder at the words inked onto the page.

 

_"What? Too many late nights playing the Templar and the naughty mage?" Dorian asked. "That is a thing, right? I heard that was a thing in the south."_

_"I'd settle for him trying to get inside my robes at all," Maren said wistfully, and sighed._

_Varric laughed, the sound a deep rumble those rose from his manly chest. He reached out and held his open palm beneath Dorian's chin. "Hear that, Sparkler? Pay up."_

_"Drat," Dorian muttered, and his brows drew together in disappointment._

_Maren stared at both of them. "You were making bets on whether or not we've--" She stopped, holding up a hand. "No. You know what? I'm not even surprised anymore."_

_"Sucker bet, mage-boy," Iron Bull said as he pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. "I could've told you that." He shifted his massive shoulders as he moved his chair in closer, and then set his well-muscled forearms on the table._

_"Oh, great. More witnesses to my humiliation," Maren muttered and tilted up her mug, taking a long, deep drink of mead._

_Iron Bull set his own huge mug on the table, continuing on as if he hadn't heard her. "You can tell by their posture with each other. People who've slept together have no concept of physical closeness anymore. People who haven't still maintain some distance, a bit of awkwardness. A tension."_

_"What's all this about, then?" Sera demanded. The lively elf spun a chair around next to Iron Bull and straddled it as she sat, her elbows resting across its wooden back._

_"Boss isn't getting any."_

_"Cullen?" The laugh that burst forth from Sera's chest was as short and sharp as it was full of mirth. "Could’ve told you that."_

_Maren sighed again. "I'm so glad you all know my deepest, darkest, most intimate secrets."_

_"Right?" Iron Bull shot Sera a roguish grin, as if they were both in on some sort of secret._

_The look seemed to bounce off Sera like an arrow against a metal shield. Her eyes narrowed slightly on Iron Bull as she replied, "Not because of your Qunari rubbish. Just, Cullen's the type that'd take his time, is all."_

_"Sure," Bull agreed easily. "Slow and thorough, focused on his lover's pleasure more than his ow--"_

_"Not. Helping," Maren groaned and let her face fall forward into the table. Her forehead met the wood with a soft thunk._

_Iron Bull looked briefly contrite. "Sorry, boss."_

_"That's not what I meant," Sera insisted._

_"Oh good, we're not done," Maren muttered into the table._

_"I meant Cullen's the type that doesn't rush in, is all. Wants to get to know someone first. Nothin' wrong with that."_

_Maren lifted her face from the table, looking at Sera in surprise._

_"What?" Sera asked, seeming defensive. "It's true."_

_"Well, whatever you two are doing, it's still more physicality than I've gotten since I've been here," Dorian said ruefully, and sighed._

_"I could help you out with that," Iron Bull offered, leering suggestively at Dorian._

_"You?" Dorian asked, and then threw back his head, laughing. "A Qunari and a Tevinter? I'm not sure if that would qualify as a peace talk or as grounds to re-ignite the entire war."_

_"Your loss," Iron Bull said and shrugged._

_"I doubt it," Dorian contradicted. "You lack a certain... finesse, I look for in a partner."_

_"Actually," Maren said, eager to shift the focus to someone else, "I once witnessed him braid an elven woman’s hair with a surprising amount of finesse."_

_Dorian's brows rose in surprise. "Truly?"_

 

"That isn't how it happened," she protests.

Varric startles, point of the quill sending ink in a straight line toward the edge of the page. 

"You always sneak up on people like that?" he demands, surly.

"I remember that night," she goes on, ignoring his question. She remembers that night very well, it had been a few weeks ago. "And that isn't what I said. I did _not_ say, 'I'd settle for him trying to get inside my robes at all'. What I said was, 'Not… exactly'."

"To tell a good story, you have to embellish a few things, add a few things," Varric says with a wave of his hand.

"Creators, Varric. I can't believe you're going to put _that_ in the book."

" _Hypothetical_ book," he corrects. "I still haven't decided if I should write about this shit or not. This is still a very rough draft."

"You can leave that part out, can't you?"

Varric scratches at the paper with his quill, shaking his head. "If that's what you want. But you're making this more difficult than it already is."

She huffs out a rough laugh with a shake of her head. "That seems to be what I do."

"Hawke's story was easier," he says, not unkindly.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

Varric trails off into muttering that she can't understand, and she takes that as her cue to leave.

*

She walks further into the Hall, and sees guards standing by the throne. That means she needs to judge someone, which is one of her least favorite things. But it's better to get it over with now than to wait.

Josephine is not happy, and neither is she.

She has to judge a box.

No, really. She has to judge a box.

A box full of Florianne's remains. She's already killed her, what more does the world want?

Fine. Community service seems appropriate.

She sentences Florianne's skull to do a re-enactment of a play, the box to be an end table to orphans.

Josephine doesn’t seem to share her sense of humor, but she goes along with it.

Creators. She doesn’t know how she ended up here, doing this. She hasn't had enough sleep, or enough time to think, reacting on instinct.

But still, fuck Florianne.

The guy who launched a goat at Skyhold's walls is up next, and he's far more entertaining.

She sends his clan off to Tevinter, more for fun than anything else, and he doesn't seem to mind at all.

And she's done here. 

*

The sun is going down.

The Winter Palace is done. It's so done. She's never even going to talk about the Winter Palace, ever again, if she has her way. Halamshiral is _not_ what the Winter Palace is now. Halamshiral is given to round eared elves, whom she hopes will make the world a better place for her kind.

She's done the best she can. 

She needs rest.

Like she's going to sleep?

She has one compass point. And it leads straight to him.  



	38. Not From You

She slips inside his office and sees him with his soldiers, her form half-claimed by the shadows as she moves to the inside of the doorway, watching from afar.

And now, like the very first moment she'd met him, he's in his element, in control, giving out orders like he was born to do it, so incredibly competent, and she adores…

No. She more than adores.

Standing there, her shoulders perched against stone, smiling, thumb rubbing against her forefingers in slow circles in front of her chin as she watches on, warmth filling her inside and out, and she more than adores this man.

This beautiful man and his dedication to his job, his efficiency, the warrior that inhabits every aspect of his being, and he could be cold, isolated, dead and soulless, given what he's been through. But he isn't, never has been, eyes meeting hers across the room, voice catching, halting before he continues on.

His soldiers see a man of purpose, a dedicated man, and they respect him for it, as she does… but they don’t see beyond that. They don’t know the sweetness in him, the soft spaces between his ribs where he’s drawn breath against her cheek, the way he's spoken to her in a voice she can scarcely hear above his heartbeat. They don’t know the gentle stroke of his hand through her hair, or the sharp nip of his teeth against her lower lip. The goodness, the want in him, she knows these things—knows _him_ , the rhythm and cadence and flow of him well enough to feel like he’s part of her, even if he never stops surprising her. 

This is more than adoration, more than appreciation, more than just trust.

It doesn't feel like a revelation—if she's honest, she's known for a long time, now. It just makes sense, corner of her mouth quirking upward as she watches him dismiss his soldiers with final orders.

"Ser," they respond, snapping off smart salutes before they turn.

He follows them to the door and pushes it closed behind them with both hands, arms extended, head bowed between his shoulders. "There's always something more, isn’t there?"

He sounds exhausted.

"Wishing we were somewhere else?" she asks.

He chuckles, low into his shoulder. "I barely found time to get away before," he says, pushing away from the door, turning and walking toward the center of the room. His silence isn't long, but it's heavy, loaded with a weight she can feel.

"This war won’t last forever," he says. "When it started, I… I hadn’t considered much beyond our survival. But things are different now." He turns, looking at her directly across his shoulder.

She shifts her shoulders, pushing from the wall, walking to meet him. "What do you mean?"

He looks away again, his profile limned in warm yellow, shades flowing away across his features in hues of orange. "I find myself wondering, what will happen after," he turns to look at her again, hazel, gold-flecked eyes meeting hers intently, and Creators, the intensity in him—the raw honesty of emotion she sees in him—leaves her breathless. "When this is over," he goes on, "I-I won’t want to move on." Words confessed, low, rich honey, fingers skimming down her cheek, caressing her jaw, eyes so sincere, locked on hers. "Not from you."

She remembers the last time he’d spoken about the future—

_"To be honest I hadn’t given it much thought until recently. I’m not used to having so many… possibilities."_

Apparently, somewhere between then and now, he’d made a decision. The look in his eyes, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the adoration and warmth in him, and he seems so—

He glances off to the side then, shoulders rising, suddenly uncertain as he glances at the floor. "But I—I don't know what you—" He lifts his eyes, glances away across his left shoulder. "That is," he says, with a turn of his jaw leading him to step in the same direction, "if you, ah." Hands resting on the outside edge of his desk, back turned to her, and she doesn't understand.

How can he even wonder? How can he ask? How can he not know when it’s so simple, so obvious, so everything she’s ever shown him?

She’ll save the world, because she has to. Because she’s the only one who can. But he’s always been the only thing she’s ever _wanted_ out of all of this, world be damned. 

"Cullen." She moves forward, fingers closing around his left wrist and lifting his hand. "Do you need to ask?"

His eyes meet hers, rapt as she moves between him and the desk, hips wriggling up onto wood, hands inching backward as she leans back, looks up at him.

"I suppose not," he breathes. "I want—"

Her left hand catches against a wine bottle, sending it careening from the desk to the floor in a sudden, sobering shatter. She gasps in surprise, glancing down at it—and they'll have to clean it up now, moment ruined—

She looks back to meet Cullen's eyes, their heads turning in synchronous motion from the jagged fragments scattered across the floor.

His brow furrows, eyes focusing on her with intense emotion before his mouth tugs in a crooked smile. Sweetness and affection and something more…and then he shakes his head, body leaning across her, one arm sweeping his desk clean. Sheets of paper whisper through the air, crash of another bottle, books scattered with resounding thuds across stone, and Cullen reaches for her, turns her shoulder downward toward the desk as he smiles.

Here? Now? On his desk? The center of command, this space he's always kept so tightly controlled, and she knows his need to construct order out of chaos, how it's part of what helps hold him together. For him to sweep it all aside and let go, for her, for _this_ \--she can't quantify what it means, can barely process the thought before her back is pressed against solid wood, the equally solid weight of him pressing down against her, lips melting against hers, molten heat searing her to the core.

Here. Now. Hands clasping his face, pulling him deeper into the kiss, his hips fitting between hers, and she can feel the hard length of him against her, gasping into his mouth as he rocks against her, delicious friction sending sparks all through her, one hand cupping and caressing her breast, barest touch of his thumb against her nipple, catching the hardened nub between the fleshy pad and his forefinger, squeezing lightly, sensation jolting through her in a line straight to her clit, and she shudders, hips jolting against his.

He breathes out hard through his nose, pulling back from kissing her, teeth nipping at her lower lip, hard line of his cock rocking into her again through their clothes, and she moans, wrapping her arms around him—and dammit, he's all metal and bear fur and she wants to feel him, naked and flush against her. He's got one arm braced, keeping the bulk of his armor weight from her, but she wants him out of it, wants all of him, right now.

"Your armor," she whispers, lips barely straying from his.

He draws back just slightly to look at her, hazel eyes dark, lips pulling in a crooked smile. "I have a plan."

He seems so sure of himself now, smirking at her like that, and there's nothing of the desperate insistence that had been there last time they'd come to this point. Just slow movements, steady, sure hands, the trust between them known, now, written in the scant spaces between their bodies, the incendiary heat of their eyes.

Hands sliding underneath her shoulders, drawing her upward until she's sitting on the edge of the desk and he's standing, kissing out from her mouth, biting along the line of her jaw, tip of his tongue tracing down the rabbiting of her pulse, teeth closing over her collarbone. Fingers working at the buttons on her shirt, popping them open one by one, mouth following behind in a hot, sweet trail until he pushes the material back against her shoulders, baring her chest. Cool air swirling over skin and her nipples harden, rosy peaks pointing upward. He takes a moment just to look, admiring the view, and she's never been shy, but this is... 

She supposes they've both waited long enough; they should take their time, enjoy this. But Creators, she wants him so badly, chest jutting outward, upward, hands sliding up into his hair pulling him close.

He follows her lead, bends in, tongue swirling out along the swell of her breast, circling until his lips close around her nipple, suckling and licking, edge of teeth dragging just a little, just enough, testing, tasting, and she arches against him, thrusting her chest forward, calves wrapping around his waist, pulling him close as she breathes out hard, head thrown back, arms locked around the back of his neck.

Sweet, agonizingly slow twists of his tongue and she's incredibly wet, reaching up and dragging one hand from her shoulder, fingers squeezing against his, flattening them, pushing them together down the waistband of her pants to where she's slick and hot. 

"Cullen, please," she begs.

He groans against her skin, fingertips playing in the slickness, sliding along her inner lips, until they curl up the center of her, circling her clit, and she shudders against the feel, hips thrusting, wanting more.

"Maker…" he breathes, fingers trembling against her before they pull away. Hand rising to her shoulder, pushing her back down against the desk.

Tongue trailing down between the center of her breasts to her belly, hands tugging the waistband of her pants downward, tongue licking lower, teasing out to the edge of her hip. Heated kisses down the outside of her thigh, peeling clothes from skin until she's bare, casting them aside, hands rising up, sliding behind her knees to her hips, pulling her down the desk to the edge until she can feel the heat of his breath against her cunt. Spread wide open and she's been exposed to him every single way except this.

Fuck, she wants, needs him so _much_ —hissing in a breath, hips canting against his chin, hand running raggedly through his hair, gripping tight.

Trembling thighs, grasped from the outside, squeezed tight against his face, tongue licking up the expanse of her inner lips until he reaches the top, swirling around her clit, slow and taking his time like she's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, circling a few times, making her whine and thrust until he takes mercy on her, suckling the tiny bud between his lips. Fingers between and beneath, sliding through slickness, pushing inside her _so_ easy, and Creators, the feel of him inside her, flexing and curling, seeking, her body arching into his touch.

"There?" he whispers, hot breath against her clit, fingers crooking inside her, and her hips rise reflexively into his touch, her head pushing back against the desk. 

"Yes," she hisses, rocking into the cant of his fingers. "Please." Body and breath begging for more, and his lips close around her, sucking deep and hard, tongue flicking against her clit, inside his mouth, and fuck, it's been so long, too long—sweet pressure of his fingers inside her, and that would be enough even without his mouth—

"Cullen." Bitten off gasp, fingers clenching in his hair as she comes, hips thrusting upward from the desk as she convulses, thighs clutching tight around him, shuddering and shaking against his mouth, and it's too much, bright explosion of stars beneath her skin, behind her eyes, turning the world to white, hands squeezing and pulling mindlessly, head thrown backward as she gasps for breath.

He breathes out her name against thin skin, tongue arching, mouth suckling, and she rides his face with broken rhythm, inner muscles contracting and releasing around his fingers until she's shivering, weak against the desk, cunt soaking wet, his fingers drawing out every last sensation, leaving her begging.

"Need more." She grabs at his hair with fumbling hands, trying to pull him closer. "Need you." Aftershocks ricocheting through her body, and she moans, riding them out. "Need _all_ of you." Words whispered as a shiver echoes through her spine, shivering like she's cold, but she isn't; every nerve on fire. 

He kisses out down the wetness of her inner thighs, fingers leaving her slowly, and then his hands slide up around the outside of her hips, along her waist and then under her shoulders, pulling her up from the desk to meet him in a kiss. 

"I just need a moment," he whispers, hands closing around her face, kissing her long and deep, and she can taste herself on him. When he draws back, he takes a step away from where she's precariously perched on the desk, fingers working at the clasps and buckles on his armor, precious, long moments as metal and fur fall to the floor, leather peeled away last, and then he stands naked, bared before her.

She looks him up and down, taking her time admiring the view; the musculature of him as beautifully carved as any statue, limned in orange candlelight and cut by shadow. He's completely unabashed in his nakedness as he walks toward her, and she opens her arms, welcomes him in.

He steps up to her, his hands pushing at the edges of the shirt that still clings to her, and she moves with the motion, shrugging from it. Both of them naked now, and he looks into her eyes as he kisses her, pushes her back against the desk, body sliding up hers, velvety head of his cock between her thighs, teasing just at the edge.

"I wanted to be sure," he whispers.

She doesn't… "That you wanted me?"

"That _you_ wanted _me_ ," he breathes, kissing her, pushing, thrusting all the way inside her, fingers curling in her hair, and fuck yes, right there, inside her, filling her, and Creators—

"Cullen," she gasps.

"I wanted to know… you wanted this, beyond the Inquisition." Fingers smoothing back the hair from her face, hips thrusting, pulling back, eyes boring into her and he's beautiful and fierce, gorgeous and strong.

"Want you, always," she breathes. It's the truth, burning as she confesses, everything given in a moment.

Lips kissing at her words, breathing them in, brushing along her jaw, down her pulse, lower to the coin lying between her breasts, hips coiling and pushing, her legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging against the sweet curve of his ass.

"I've…never…" he whispers, hand touching her face, mouth rising to meet hers, "wanted…" thrusting to fill her, "anything more."

Hands through his hair, her head pushed back against the desk and she's drunk with the feel of him against her, _inside_ her—this beautiful, badass, competent man, and he's hers, given to her so completely, and she can't give less, arms and legs wrapping tight around him.

"Creators, Cullen," she breathes against his mouth, hips lifting to meet his. "I want… I can't… What you mean…"

"I know," he whispers.

"You don't," she gasps. He's so beautiful, molten heat against her, inside her and he doesn't know, may never know what he means. 

"I know what you mean," he breathes. "I know you're beautiful." Hands moving to map the skin of her outer thighs, fingertips curling into the hollows of her hips, thrust and pull and lips kissing hers. "Inside and out." Everything in him breathing and shuddering. 

One hand clutching her hip, other rising to touch her face, fingertips tracing the marks there, the cobalt blue of June etched beneath and he doesn't hesitate. "That I can trust you."

The space of a breath, the thrust of him inside her, fingers trailing upward into her hair, winding in the strands, tugging her head backward as he kisses down into her. 

"I _trust_ you," he breathes.

"I know." He shouldn't... he really shouldn't. But he does, he _does_ and… She closes her eyes against the truth, bites down against his lower lip, kissing out, tonguing against the scar on his upper lip. "I trust _you_."

"I've made mistakes," he breathes, hips rocking into her, hand surging up underneath her shoulder blade, pulling her closer. "Terrible mistakes… but you're… not one of them. You're…" lips brushing against hers, fingers coiling in her hair, "You're _right_. You're the one right thing in all of this… and not because you're the Inquisitor…" he shudders, thrusting, smoothing the hair back from her face, eyes boring into hers. "Not because you can close the rifts…" he shakes his head fractionally, hazel eyes burning into hers and her head is on fire, lost in the way he looks at her. "Because you're _you_."

He speaks the words like they're a revelation, and she wants to tell him all the ways he's wrong, how she was never anything special before this, but he already knows that. He knows what she was before, that she's only an accident now, and still… he holds her like this, looks at her like this, like she's the most precious thing he's ever seen.

In all her life, she's never been loved like this.

And it's love, isn't it? It's been love for so long and she—

It feels too big to hold inside, like she might burst if she doesn't show him, tell him, make it known somehow. She draws breath to speak and he curls his hips underneath him, thrusting into her at an angle, head of his cock pushing against that sensitive spot inside her before sliding to fill her, and her breath leaves her in a surprised gasp of pleasure, fingertips clutching at his shoulders. 

"So beautiful," he whispers, painting the words against her lips, hips rocking into hers, and she's gone, caught in the rhythm between them. 

Skin to skin and he feels like the most incredible thing she's ever known, sweet and hot and perfect and fucking into her with slow, merciless thrusts that wind her muscles tighter, heat pooling low in her belly, every nerve alive and electric. 

Connected mouth to chest to hip, palm curved against her shoulder blade, fingertips grasping her shoulder, holding her as he reaches down between them, thumb brushing against her clit as he thrusts, name breathed out against her mouth, and her hips buck of their own accord, combined sensations too much, head snapping backward as she comes. Muscles clamping down around him and she can feel him gasp, stiffen against her, inside her, pulsing wet heat as pleasure spirals through her in contracting waves, winding higher and higher until the world narrows to the space between her hips, white-hot and overwhelming, leaving her writhing against the desk, Cullen filling her with shivering thrusts, mouth devouring hers.

Slow kisses as they come back down, bodies twitching with aftershocks, both of them left breathless, her eyes fluttering open and meeting his. 

"That… that was…" he begins, trailing off.

"Yes," she breathes, nodding, smile curving her lips.

Mouth pressing against hers, barest kiss, and then he draws back, looking at her again. "You can't be comfortable. The desk… I… wasn't thinking."

"No, you weren't," she agrees and grins, hand rising, thumb brushing his lower lip. "But neither was I."

Kiss pressed against the pad of her thumb, and then he ducks his head lower, mouthing against the line of her jaw. "We should go upstairs. My bed is much more comfortable."

"Commander," she gasps, still grinning, pretending to be scandalized.

He pulls from her with a kiss, sliding sideways and setting his feet on the floor, arms sliding beneath her back and under her knees. He lifts her into his embrace, kissing her again before he carries her in the direction of the ladder. 

He hesitates before the climb, breath filling his lungs before he speaks. "Hold on to me."

She does, turning to embrace him.

She is the Herald, the Inquisitor. She's a Dalish elf who has magical talent, she's the savior of the world if you buy into that, but she's also just a girl who loves a boy, a woman who loves a man, and there's just this; this perfection between them.

"Take me to bed, Cullen," she whispers.

He smiles and kisses her, setting his hands against the ladder, and she holds tight.


	39. You Know That, Right?

There's a hole in his roof, clear, crisp night visible through the tattered edges of the boards. It's the first thing she notices, looking up as he carries her up the ladder, and she wonders how he can stand it, if he doesn't get freezing cold in the night with the wind coming in on off the Frostbacks. And on the heels of that, she remembers he's Fereldan and he's probably used to being cold. She isn’t as used to it, though, chill breeze rippling over her skin, leaving behind light goose flesh, and she shivers. 

"The roof." The words leave him like a realization and an apology all at once.

She snuggles a little tighter against him, shaking her head. "It doesn’t matter tonight. We'll get it fixed, starting tomorrow."

He looks down at her, mild surprise in his expression, eyes studying her carefully as a small smile plays around his lips. "'We'?"

She doesn't understand for a moment, puzzled, and then she does: neither of them has ever referred to the relationship between the two of them as a "we", before. Not like she just did, verbally combining them into a unit of significance—the kind that shares things like bedrooms, and roofs, and decisions. And that's a step, isn’t it? She'd probably feel more awkward about it if it weren't just another in a series of big steps they've taken lately.

"Yes. 'We'," she says, certain as she smiles at him.

His answering smile is warm and pleased.

"Unless you'd _rather_ have a gigantic hole in your roof?" she adds, teasing lilt to her tone.

"I'd rather you were comfortable," he says, sincere.

They reach the top of the ladder, then, and she isn't sure for a moment how they're going to clear the top. Then he shifts, holding to the ladder with one arm and lifting her upper body with the other, turning her until she can get her hands on the floor behind her. She lifts her weight the rest of the way until her bare ass touches the wooden planks, pulling her calves up so that they rest sideways against the floor in front of her, and then pushes to her feet. He's cleared the ladder a moment later, and she chuckles, wrapping her arms around him as he rises to his full height before her. 

"And here I thought you were going to carry me all the way to bed," she teases.

His answer is as swift as it is certain, smirking as he sweeps her off her feet and into his arms again, and she laughs in delighted surprise. He carries her across the few steps it takes to reach the bed and then lays her down upon it gently, taking care to see that her head is resting on one of the pillows. She smiles up at him and opens her arms to him in invitation. He's beautiful in the scant light of a single candle burning near the bed, his body thrown into sharp shades of shadow, yellow-orange light burning behind most of his form.

She knows how he feels, now, knows it mirrors the feelings in her own heart. She might not have believed it before tonight. Words unspoken as yet, but she knows, had felt it in everything he'd said, the feel of his body against her, inside her, his sweet words more honest than anything else she's ever known. He trusts her, he's told her, and she'd understood it in everything they'd done before they'd come up the ladder. And for him to tell her that… to kiss her and touch her the way that he had… he feels it the same way she does.

It doesn't scare her any less to understand and know it, but it's true, and it's right.

Whatever else happens, whatever else may come, they have this; this beautiful, extraordinary thing between them. He's so much more certain of himself with her now as he slides into the bed, pulling the covers up over them, tucking the blanket up over her shoulders as he lies down alongside her. Always, always thinking of her first, making sure she's warm, and she couldn't have cared less, the heat of his body against hers all she needs to feel, enough to protect her from the cold wind of the Frostbacks, enough to shelter her…

From anything? Is that what she was really about to think?

She has responsibilities, things she has to do that she can't turn away from. But right here, right now, circled in the warmth of his arms, she feels _safe_. Like everything will always be all right as long as he's there to hold her, kiss her and look at her the way he's looking at her right now.

Dangerous. Such a dangerous way to feel, but she's already there, warm in his embrace, breathing out his name. She's never been in this deep. She's cared for people before, even loved them, but it's never been like this. She's never felt this safe or cared for in return, never felt this ready to…

She'd die to protect him. She feels like she gave up her life a long time ago, on that first day when she'd tried to close the breach, again when she'd defended Haven, and it had been worth it. But those had been extreme situations, and she'd give up more than her life now, give it a thousand times over to keep him safe. She might still have to give up her life to save the world, but even so… she'd give more for him.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks, his hand stroking through her hair, and it's not an idle question, one asked with sincere desire to know.

How can she explain? And yet… how can she not tell the truth?

She tells as much of it as she can.

"About you," she says and smiles, reaches upward, fingertips sliding along his cheekbone. 

He smiles back, hand coming up to cover hers against his cheek, and he's so warm, so inviting and comfortable and safe. He leans to kiss her, languorous and gentle, no ardor or need between them now, nothing between them save what's always been there, connected skin to skin and mouth to mouth, moonlight shining down on their bodies.

He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close to him beneath the blanket, foreheads touching as he gazes into her eyes, tiny smile playing about his lips. He kisses her on the forehead then, lifting his chin to tuck the crown of her head beneath it and pulling her in tight. She breathes in the scent of him, skin of her cheek pressed against the hollow of his throat. 

She falls asleep there, the steady pulsing of his heartbeat against her ear.

 

*

When she wakes in the morning, still held in the circle of his arms, it's to sunlight slanting in through the roof, dust motes dancing lazily in the yellow light. Her skin is warm, sun-kissed, and she's unsurprised that the covers have fallen away from them both, kicked to a tangle at the foot of the bed. If she were any warmer it would be too much, and she can see the faint sheen of sweat already beginning to form on Cullen's brow.

A glance out the window to her right tells her that the hour is later than she'd thought, and she pulls from his embrace as quickly as she can without waking him. She has meetings and Josephine will be waiting, looking perfectly put together as always, tip of her feathered pen tapping against her clipboard the only indication of her impatience.

She slides across the bed, setting her bare feet against the cool, wooden boards, and suddenly realizes that she'd left her clothes downstairs in Cullen's office. In Cullen's office; where any of the soldiers or messengers could walk in at any moment.

She glances around the sparse room, looking for something to tug on—already knowing if anyone sees her there'll be no end to the stories that will make the rounds—when her eye catches on something tucked in alongside the bed table.

It's her Inquisitor's outfit, folded neatly in all its drab beige-ness.

How had he…? No. _When_ had he…?

She doesn't have time to ponder it, picking up her clothes with a grateful glance at Cullen still sleeping in his bed. She's tightening the laces on her boots when he finally stirs, his head tossing to the left, then the right, hands coming up as if to shield himself from something unseen.

"No," he breathes out, teeth clenching. "Leave me." He swats at the air, turning his head side to side. "Leave me."

She's about to wake him from whatever nightmare he's having when he suddenly sucks in a breath of air, half sitting up from the bed. She's startled, despite herself, blinking and drawing back as Cullen pulls in a ragged breath, looking about the room as if he isn't sure where he is. After a moment, he seems to realize, laying his head back against the pillow and closing his eyes.

"Bad dream?" she asks, reaching to touch his chest, fingertips resting lightly against his skin, just enough to reassure him that she's there.

"They always are," he replies, opening his eyes after a moment. "Without lyrium, they're worse."

He looks at her then, pushing up from the bed on one elbow, reaching for her with his other hand. 

"I didn't mean to worry you," he says, his rich, silky voice filled with concern. Concern for her, always, even when it's himself he should be concerned for.

His hand rests against her cheek as he gazes up at her, and she meets his eyes, honey-colored flecks catching bright as fire in the sunlight.

"You can let me worry about you a little," she says with a small smile, fingers rising to stroke briefly along his cheek.

He chuckles, seeming almost uncertain. "All right."

She can tell from the way he says it that he's not used to having anyone worry about him, and she leans in, leans down, letting her forehead touch his.

"You are…" he pauses, breath catching in his throat, eyes fluttering shut. "I have never," he breathes, "felt this way about anyone before."

Even without the sheer, raw emotion in his voice she'd know he was telling the truth. And neither has she. Foreheads pressed against each other and she's never felt this way about anyone, except for him. So many reasons this shouldn't work, shouldn't fit, but it does. Gorgeous, damaged man, and he should be so fragile, broken, but he isn’t. She with this mark on her hand, thrown into the role of savior, and she should be frightened, lost, but she isn't. Somehow, in the midst of all this madness, they'd found each other. A mage and a former Templar, an elven woman and a human man, and she doesn't care about that. She can see him, right down to his soul, so sincere and given to this, to _her_ , and could she have ever predicted this?

No. Not ever.

"I love you," she breathes back, her eyes rising to meet his. "You know that, right?"

The words leave her naturally, without fear; just a statement of fact she's known for a long time.

"I love you, too." His voice is level as he looks at her, but she can see it in his face; the tenderness and wonder in him, how precious her words are to him, how much she means.

The corner of her mouth curves in a smile and she leans to kiss him, lips meeting his for just an instant before she draws back. She wants to stay, kiss him until she loses herself completely, press her lips against every bare inch of his sun-warmed skin. The only thing that stops her is knowing Josephine will send someone to find her soon, if she hasn't already.

She draws back reluctantly, touching his shoulder and holding his gaze for an instant longer, and then she turns, rising from the bed. She should be thinking about her day, mentally preparing for the meetings she's about to have… but all she can think about is the way he'd looked at her this morning, the way he'd touched her last night.

Behind her, she can hear Cullen fall back against the bed, exhaling a happy, contented sigh. She can nearly _see_ the smile on his lips, imagine him staring happily into space. She feels exactly the same way as she descends the ladder, hitting the ground with feet that feel lighter than air. 

It will be miraculous if she can pull her head together today.


	40. A Night's Tale

The day passes in a normal whirl of activity, but as things slow down and the sun begins to set over Skyhold, she does make time to talk to the lead renovator, discussing the hole in Cullen's roof with him. The man writes it down on a list, saying they'll get to it as soon as they can, and she thanks him before heading on to the great hall.

Improvements around Skyhold seem to have moved forward even further during their trip to the Winter Palace. After they'd gone to Adamant, much of the scaffolding that scaled the great hall had been removed, and the draperies she'd picked out had been hung from the rafters of the high walls. They're far more lush than her clan would ever be able to afford, but they're woven with a traditionally Dalish pattern; a nice complement to the Inquisition banners that decorate the walls. Her two worlds, merged together in tangible reality, just as they are in her life. She hadn't paid much attention after her return, too caught up in Stroud's loss, amongst other things, but she takes a moment to notice now, slowing to take in the finished look of the hall, the low burnished glimmer of the gold-tinted Free Marches statues. 

There are two nobles speaking nearby as she passes, and she pauses, her interest caught by their barely hushed conversation.

"So we reach the climax," the female noble is saying.

"Not just us," responds the male, his voice laced with knowing sarcasm and humor.

Could they…. Are they speaking of her and Cullen? Of last night? She frowns lightly, considering. But how could they know?

 _My dear Inquisitor, all of Skyhold knows by now_ , speaks up a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Dorian.

"Oh you!" The female noble's rebuke is playful and scandalized. "This could be serious. Perhaps there will be gowns."

"The signs are there," the male agrees. "They'll be sewing in Val Royeaux even now."

Gowns? Wedding gowns? It's far, far too soon to even consider such a thing. 

_"Are you married, Commander?"_

_"Not yet."_

It seems clear to her that Cullen has considered becoming married, at least, if not to her. But as much as he feels for her—as much as they feel for each other--it would be silly of her to discount that he's thought specifically about marrying her. She wonders what that means, and on a more immediate level, she wonders why these two nobles consider it any of their business.

She shakes her head, pushing away the thoughts their conversation stir in her. She turns to the left, toward the door to the rotunda, planning to take the bridge to Cullen's office, when Varric stops her outside the door.

"There you are. I've been looking all over for you." Varric gives her a broad smile. "You're just in time. We were about to start without you."

Well it _is_ Varric, so it's unlikely he's been waiting for her for anything work related. Still… She makes a cautious joke, wondering what in the world Varric could be talking about, and then he motions her on, leading her toward Herald's Rest.

The tavern appears to be empty, save one large table near the fireplace. Her friends are gathered around a large table with flagons of mead set before them. On the table are…cards? They're playing cards? Wicked Grace, if her eyes don't deceive her.

Solas and Vivienne are absent, which surprises her less than Blackwall's notable absence. It seems odd for Blackwell to miss a gathering like this, given his love for company, ale and playing cards. Sera and Leliana don't seem to be in attendance either, but she can plainly see Cassandra, Iron Bull, Josephine, Cole, Dorian, Varric and… Cullen? Cullen… is _here_? Varric got Cullen to attend the rough equivalent of a party? If she didn't know dwarves can't work magic she'd suspect Varric of sorcery. After she takes her seat Cullen does try to bow out of the game, claiming a thousand things to do, but Dorian and Varric convince him to stay.

She reminds Varric that she's still new to this game—Josephine had taught her chess because of the noble penchant for doing so, but not this. What little she does know she's learned from Varric himself, a few hands played around campfires. And yet… Josephine is dealing? She forgets sometimes that Josephine has had a more colorful past than her advisor's collected exterior would lead one to believe.

Josephine deals her in, and they begin.

*

They play a few rounds, everyone drinking liberally from their cups, a few of them telling funny tales of past experiences. Even Cullen gets in on the story-telling, relating the story of one particular under-dressed Circle Tower recruit with amused zeal. The finish of the story leaves everyone in throes of laughter, Cassandra and Iron Bull in particular seeming surprised enough to disbelieve him. 

When the laughter dies down, she rests her elbows against the wooden table and leans forward with a smirk, announcing that she has a story for them.

"The clan decided to camp near this ruined fortress, right on the edge of Tirashan, dark as the bottom of a well. The Keeper swore up and down it was safe, but some of the hunters started hearing noises in the middle of the night…"

"The hunters set up a ring around the perimeter, to guard from any creatures, but that was nothing to me. I was a hunter before I was a mage, and I could melt into the landscape like a shadow, especially with my magic to aid me. I slipped through the guard and went to investigate. The only living thing I found was an old ornery druffalo, probably responsible for the noises we'd been hearing. But I was curious about the fortress, so I went to have a look. It was made of ancient, crumbling stone, covered in slippery moss and dark shadows, but it still bore the marks of elven runes. I couldn't read them, but I recognized them. The only other thing of interest about the place was the small lake it sat at the edge of."

She pauses, taking a drink from her cup and wiping at her chin.

"The water had steam rising from it, and at first I took it for the heat of the day rising into the cooler night. But as I walked on, dipping my hand into the water, I realized it was far warmer than the sun could ever make it. It was fed from underground by a hot spring. It was late and the moon was more than half full, high in the sky, and the steam rising up was an invitation I couldn't pass by. So I stripped off my clothes and slid into the water."

It's been a little while since she's told a story. Being First to the Keeper meant she had to have a talent for it, and she's glad to see she hasn’t lost her touch.

"I had my shirt with me, meaning to wash my clothes while I was there. Well, I hadn't been in the lake for more than a few minutes when I heard the sounds of people approaching. They were speaking Common, loudly, in the same accent as the local humans. I didn't have time to grab the rest of my clothes. I had to scurry into the ruins to avoid being seen, and I hid there for a while, listening as the humans talked amongst themselves."

She shifts slightly in her seat, wood creaking before she continues.

"There were three of them, a nobleman's son and his three guards, all men. The nobleman's son and two of the guards were just as loud and boisterous as could be, striding toward the water's edge and laughing. But the third guard… he hung back, looking around nervously, and he kept trying to get the other men's attention." 

"'Shut up,' the nobleman's son said. 'If you're scared of ghosts go back to the village.' 

And the nervous one, he said, "I'm tellin' you, my cousin was out here a few weeks ago and he said he saw one plain as day.' 

'Your cousin?' laughed the nobleman's son. 'Probably saw his own reflection in the water and ran away.' 

"I swear on me mum's grave,' the nervous guard said in a loud whisper. 'He said he saw a banshee gliding right out across the lake from the fortress. Like she was floating on the water's surface." 

'How'd he know it was a banshee?' asked the second guard. 

'He heard it scream.' 

The second guard snorted laughter. 'If he'd heard it scream he'd be dead right now, and I saw that idiot two nights ago at the tavern, drunk as you please." 

'What's a banshee?' the third guard asked. 

'Knife-ear spirit," answered the nobleman's son. "Stories say female elves who were murdered come back to get vengeance. That they howl a terrible keening sound that kills anyone who hears it.' 

'Knife-ears always mucking up everything,' the third guard muttered. 

'Shouldn't ought to say such things,' the nervous one said, looking around. 'If there are elven spirits, they can hear us.'" 

She takes a quick sip of ale before she continues. 

"The nobleman's son went on about how there'd been ghost stories about the fortress ever since he could remember, and how they were just stories to keep the young kids from wandering off and drowning. The third guard agreed, and the three of them started peeling out of their armor, clearly meaning to go for a bath, or a swim. The nervous guard though, he couldn't quite decide until the others teased and prodded him into it." 

She lowers her voice slightly for this next part, attempting to build the mood. 

"'So…' said the nobleman's son, his tone low and hushed. 'The legends say many years ago, this fortress belonged to the slant ears. When the Chantry decreed war on the them, a terrible battle took place here. Uppity knife-ears got what they deserved, killed to the last man. But there was an elven wench, wife to the commander of the army. They found her in the bowels of the fortress with an infant wrapped in her arms, singing to it in a voice so beautiful it was unearthly. The human Captain declared her a witch and condemned her to death. They say she sang a beautiful song as they marched her down to the water's edge with that infant in her arms, her voice so pure and gorgeous that half the soldiers had tears running down their dirty cheeks. Dozens of them called out for the Captain to have mercy and spare her, but that just convinced the Captain even more that she was a witch. They say she marched right into the lake without hesitation, singing until water started filling up her mouth. The lake closed up over top of the knife-ear and no one ever saw her or the child again.'" 

Maren takes a deep breath. "By this time, the other three men had gone completely still, enraptured by the story he was telling them. His voice grew even more hushed, so low I could barely hear it from my hiding place. He said…" 

"'But sometimes… late at night… they say she comes back up out of the lake looking for the ones who killed her. Babe still in her arms, her pale skin streaked with mud, hair a wet mess of long tangles, that beautiful voice turned inside out in a scream what'll kill any mortal man who hears it.'" 

She lowers her voice another notch as she continues, everyone else around the table leaning forward to listen. 

"Everything was silent for a moment, and I swear I could hear the other three breathing, just hanging on, waiting for his next words…" She glances around the table, hitting the wood with a loud thump of her fist and raising her voice, startling them all. "The nobleman's son let out a shout, and the three guards almost jumped out of their skin. The nobleman's son started laughing so hard he was choking, the others splashing water and hurling insults at him. Their noises startled a rabbit from its cover, and it rushed along the shore, startling even the nobleman's son. They were completely distracted, and I realized this was the perfect time for me to make my escape. I waited a moment more, thinking, and then I slipped from behind the rubble where I'd hidden, naked as the day I was born and…" 

She pauses for effect. 

"…I balled up my wet shirt in my arms and cradled it to my chest. My skin looked milk-pale in the moonlight, streaked black in spots with mud, and my hair was wet and stringy. I called my magic to me, threw back my head… and started singing." 

"You didn't," Josephine gasps. 

She sings the verse she'd sung to the men that night: 

" _Vengeance finds you,_  
_shiver and shake,_  
_You who killed us,_  
_my wrath shall take._ " 

"My singing wasn't unearthly beautiful, but they were past hearing. The magic made my voice carry, and I started to move toward them." Laughter begins to pervade her voice as she continues. "You should have seen them scramble over top of each other, flailing to get out of the water and away. They didn't stop to grab anything; all four of them screaming like children. They ran out of there, fast as you think, bare asses shining in the moonlight, the whole way back to their village." 

The laughter that greets the end of her tale is gratifying, though she thinks Josephine may be exaggerating a little when she says it would ruin the Inquisition if anyone found out. Cole seemed to like the part with the rabbit, though she isn't sure why that stood out to him. 

When things settle down a bit, she tells Josephine to deal and calls for more drinks. Cullen offers to get them, rising from the table and bidding them not to start without him. She's rarely seen him seem to enjoy himself in a group so much. She'd wonder why he doesn't spend more time with them, but she knows how much work there is to do, and how seriously he takes his job. Tonight is a special occasion. 

They play a few mores rounds, Josephine winning everything, and Maren begins to suspect Josephine was suckering them when she'd said she wasn't sure she remembered how to play. Cullen calls his fellow advisor on her winning, saying he recognizes her tells, and Josephine ups the stakes. Varric issues a low warning to Cullen, but Cullen's having none of it, and Mythal help her, is he _slurring_? 

He seems completely comfortable, his cheeks slightly flushed from drink, all smiles and wicked playfulness, and it warms Maren's heart to see it. He's not just relaxing, he's actually having _fun_ for once. She tells Josephine to deal her in. 

Cullen's fun doesn't last long, unfortunately. By the end of the hand he's completely naked, sitting pushed up against the edge of the table, morose and resigned to his fate. 

"Not a word, Dwarf," Cullen fairly threatens Varric. 

"I tried to warn you, Curly," Varric says with an amused shake of his head. 

"Never bet against an Antivan, Commander," Josephine tells him with a smirk. 

Everyone seems to take that as their cue to leave, and though Dorian does make a comment about wanting to see Cullen's walk of shame, he leaves before Cullen gets up from the table. Iron Bull is half-passed out on the table's surface, leaving her and Cullen looking at each other across the width. He meets her eyes and lifts his chin in a motion that tells her she should go as well, and she lifts her brows, smiling at him playfully. He makes the same motion with his chin, more emphatic this time, and she finally relents, rising to her feet. It's not as if she hasn't seen him naked, but she supposes she understands his shyness, given the situation. 

Varric takes a few moments to talk to her, telling her he's glad she joined them, and how it's easy to forget she's a person and not just a symbol. It rises to the tip of her tongue to tell him that turning her into a symbol is none of her own doing, but she swallows the words back, too content with the night to make an issue of it. She tells Varric she'd love to do it again, and he seems pleased, though he mentions it will take a while to talk Cullen into it again. 

"Maybe I'll work the 'revenge' angle," Varric adds, and she chuckles. 

As they move to leave the tavern, she hears a voice, very faint from behind them, slurred and definitely drunk. She cranes her neck to look over her shoulder and… Sera? Sera's been drunk and passed out underneath the table this whole time? 

Maren huffs out a laugh and shakes her head, stepping out the tavern door into the night. 

_*_

She finds Cullen in his room, body covered by his blanket. By all appearances, at least his upper body is still bare, skin cast in golden hues by the candlelight. 

"Did you run all the way back here naked?" she asks, unable to believe it. 

"I took an apron from the kitchen. It was all I could find," he responds, his tone dismal. "I fear there will be no end to the stories tomorrow," he adds with a sigh. 

"I still respect you, Commander," she says, trying for solemn, but she can't quite keep the grin from her face. 

He fixes her with a doubtful look, and she laughs. He grins and reaches from the bed then, taking her by the hip and pulling her closer. Between the movement and the ale, she loses her balance, falling atop him with a giggle. 

"Are you all right?" he asks, stroking her hair back from her face. "I didn't mean for you to—" 

"I'm absolutely wonderful," she tells him, smiling as she dips her head to kiss him. And she is, lying here atop him, his arms moving to encircle her, buzzed with ale and full of a night of warmth and comradery. Here, with the man she loves and who loves her, surrounded all night by her friends, she's happier than she's been in longer than she can remember. 

Cullen draws her deeper into the kiss, one hand moving to undo the buttons on her shirt. 

"I have a feeling my night is about to get even better," she murmurs against his lips, still smiling. 

"If I have my way," he breathes, fingers stroking up the line of her jaw, smoothing her hair back behind her ear, mouth rising to kiss hers. 

He pulls back, then, heat and want written in every line of his face, hazel eyes dark, and yet he hesitates. 

"With me… Is this what you imagined?" he asks. "What you hoped?" 

"More than either," she whispers, honest. 

"Good." He kisses her again, turning her gently, slowly rolling her over onto her back. 

_More than either_ , she thinks again, as he begins to undress her. 

_This is perfect._


	41. Revelations, Part 1

When she wakes in the morning, it's to Cullen pressing a kiss to her forehead.

She blinks her eyes open sleepily, disappointed to find him dressed in full armor, standing beside the bed.

"Let me guess…" she says as she stretches, arching her spine against the mattress. "Some matter of urgent importance that requires your immediate attention?"

"Is there any other kind?" he asks with smirk.

"Not for us," she sighs, and her answering smile is wan.

"I wish I could stay," he whispers, leather gloved fingertips brushing her cheek. He leans in again, meeting her mouth with his own in a slow, languid kiss.

"Keep that up and you won't be leaving," she mock-admonishes when he draws back.

"There are worse fates," he replies with a smirk, eyes glimmering amusement. "Unfortunately," he goes on, wry, "our ambassador's wrath may be one of them." 

"And she looks so innocent," Maren remarks.

"A mistake I'll not make again," he chuckles, rueful, undoubtedly thinking of the outcome of last night's game. His thumb and forefinger close gently around the jut of her chin, thumb brushing the cleft. "I'll see you later?"

"Count on it," she says and smiles, leaning to briefly touch her lips to his.

He sends her a last smile before he disappears down the ladder, and she presses a kiss to her fore and middle fingers, blowing it from them to him.

*

The first thing she does is check in on Blackwall. Vivienne and Solas not attending Wicked Grace makes sense, but for Blackwall to miss it strikes her odd. He hadn't been at his most cheerful the last time she'd seen him, and she's a bit worried about him.

The smell of hay and wood, both freshly cut, wafts from the barn. Blackwall never seems to stray far from his woodworking table or the fire a few short feet away, so she's a bit surprised not to find him there. Still… perhaps he'd had some business somewhere else, she thinks, trailing a finger absently through wood shaving dust left on the table.

The stray corner of a piece of paper catches her eye, protruding from just under the wooden gryphon toy he'd been working on carving. She tugs on it, blowing away more fine dust.

_\--Inquisitor,_

_You've been a friend and an inspiration. You've given me the wisdom to know right from wrong, and, more importantly, the courage to uphold the former._

_It's been my honor to serve you._

_Blackwall_ \--

She stands for long moments, turning the note this way and that, back and forth between the flickering light of the hearth and the full light of day that stretches in through the open doors, as if that will somehow change what she's reading. This is a goodbye letter, this much she knows. What she doesn't understand is why. She remembers checking in on him after their recent return. He'd been oddly somber and self-loathing, asking her to come for a drink at Herald's Rest and telling her a morbid tale about a dog. It had been… unlike him, she'd thought at the time. 

She'd nearly forgotten about it, but then he hadn't been at the game last night. She should have put two and two together sooner. Had events at the Winter Palace soured him? Had she been so blind that she'd—

"Inquisitor," a voice calls out, interrupting her thoughts. One of Leliana's agents stands in the open barn doorway, his features lost to shadow momentarily before he steps into the light provided by the fire.

"The Spymaster has confirmed it. Blackwall is gone."

Leliana knew before Maren had even found the note. 

She asks the man where Blackwall is, certain that Leliana must know. The man hands over what her Spymaster does know; a bit of paper found in Blackwall's quarters. Maren reads through it as Leliana's agent walks away, confused by the words on the crumpled page. She isn't sure what Cyril Mornay's execution in Val Royeaux has to do with anything, but she is sure it can't bode well for Blackwall's sudden disappearance. Could he be in trouble? Why hadn't he asked for help?

People have made sacrifices in the name of the Inquisition. People have died. But no one has just _left_. She's never lost one of her… her people? Is that what they've become? Yes; her companions, her teammates, her friends. For him to just leave like this…

She sighs, letting the hand with the letter fall to her side. 

*

It's raining in Val Royeaux as they approach the gallows, the executioner calling out Mornay's crimes. 

"Well this is grim," Varric remarks.

The rope is set about Mornay's neck, and Maren didn't come here to watch a stranger die, doesn't want to see another death, her eyes searching the crowd for some sign of Blackwall.

What she finds comes as a shock, that familiar, deep, rough voice calling out from the platform of the gallows itself.

"Stop! This man is innocent of the crimes laid before him."

Relief rushes through her at the sight of him. Yes, this is the Blackwall she knows. She doesn't understand why he's come here to defend Mornay in particular, but this is exactly what she would expect of him, to try and stay this execution.

"Orders were given," Blackwall calls out, "and he followed them like any good soldier." He turns his attention toward Mornay. "He should not die for that mistake."

"Then find me the man who gave the order," the executioner demands stepping forward.

Blackwall looks away then, his gaze falling across the crowd into the distance.

"Oh, shit," Varric says, understanding before she does.

"Blackwall," she cries, pushing forward to the edge of the platform. 

"No. I am not Blackwall. I never was Blackwall."

With that, her world fractures, shattering bit by bit as he continues his tirade. He is not Blackwall; he is Thom Rainier, the man who gave the order to slaughter an entire family. Blackwall is a Grey Warden who died long ago, someone Rainier only pretended to be.

The guards come to escort him from the platform and she watches until he's gone. It's only then that she turns away, knuckles pressed against her lips as the rain begins to slacken.

*

She immediately sends a raven to her Spymaster with the news. Then she returns to the group, uncertain of what they should do next. They'll have to stay here overnight. The sun is sinking low on the horizon and they won't be allowed to see Blackwall until morning. The executioner had been happy to tell her Blackwall would be swinging from the gallows by then, but fortunately it seems the Orlesians love their paperwork almost as much as their masks, so they have a few days.

"I thought I had failed him in some way," she says, and her voice seems small, lost on the misty air, flat as it hits the cobblestones and stone walls around them.

"Forgive me, Inquisitor, but you could not have been more wrong." Cassandra fairly spits the words.

Maren blinks in surprise and blanches, unprepared for this level of anger from Cassandra.

"There may be more to this than we know," Varric offers, and the look Cassandra cuts his way could slice him in half. Varric spreads his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm just saying, Seeker. Saying things aren't always what they seem in _this_ group is putting it mildly."

Iron Bull shakes his head, lifting one massive shoulder. "Grey Warden never sat right on him. Too much he didn't know or wouldn't answer. But I never doubted his commitment to the Inquisition," he adds, looking at Maren.

"You knew?" she asks, disbelieving. 

"No. I never had a reason to doubt him, so I never went looking. Just had a feeling something wasn't right."

"You could have said something."

"Like what? 'Hey boss, I have a vague hunch about something vague, backed up by more vagueness; you should look into this'." Iron Bull snorts, wry. 

"Point taken." Maren sighs, fingertips rising to her brow, rubbing beneath the line of her hair. 

Well she supposes at least now they know why Blackwall was unaffected by Corypheus' Calling.

She wishes she knew what to do.

*

"Inquisitor?"

"Inquisitor!"

She pushes her way through a throng of people in Val Royeaux, trying to ignore the ones vying for her attention. Iron Bull moves in front of her, turning his broad bulk to any who seem determined to stop her, and she's more grateful for that than she can say.

His help ends at the entrance to the prison, where a guard informs her that only she is allowed to enter, and then only by the grace of what she'd done for the Empress.

Val Royeaux's prison is dark, dank and dripping with moisture, whether from the recent rain or constant ground condensation, she isn't sure. Low fog swirls across the stones as she makes her way to the cell at the end, standing beneath an open grate, light shining down in precise white squares upon her.

He seems smaller somehow, diminished by the prison cell. He doesn't look up as she approaches, beginning to speak of the real Blackwall. When he's done, she questions him about the family he'd given the order to slaughter. 

The tale he tells her is one that leaves her heart divided, but that he hadn't meant for the man's family to die, that counts for something. She feels she's come to know him, in the time they've traveled and fought together, and he has always strived to do what's right since she'd met him many months ago. Her affirmation of him as being better than he thinks seems to send him over the edge, from calm to roaring anger in a matter of seconds. He charges at her, and she blinks; watches him rail at the bars of the cage, dumbfounded.

She remembers Blackwall at her side time and again, cutting through enemies with a war cry, brave and stalwart and bloodied but unbeaten. She remembers him in the Hinterlands, the outside of his thigh pressed to hers as he'd shared a bottle of wine of indeterminate origin with her. His deep, unbridled laugh and the way he'd looked at her, like she was a person and not just the Herald. The way he'd called her 'milady'. But most of all, she remembers his corpse, dangling from chains in Redcliffe castle in a future that will never come to pass. Even Cullen, The Last Lion, hadn't been able to breach the walls of that fortress, though he'd tried. But Blackwell had gotten inside. Had come to try and save them and died horribly for his efforts, his forgotten, desiccated body dropped into the depths of Redcliffe castle by Leliana's knife. The man who had committed this crime is the same man who'd given his life to try and save them. He had died for them, for the world, the same as Cassandra and Varric had—as Leliana had.

_Even if you change things, you need to remember. This **happened**. We fought and we suffered and we died. Make it your reason, make it your mantra, make it your fire. 'In your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame'_

Had he even had hope? Had any of them? Cullen had cautioned her of the castle's defenses in the war room before she'd set out. Had Blackwall hoped that alone he could do what Cullen's armies could not? Had he felt that hope curdle and blacken and die as demons flayed his flesh from bone? How long had he fought? How long had he suffered?

Was it long enough to atone for this? 

She takes a deep breath and turns away from his cell.


	42. Revelations, Part 2

A rich, melodious voice she'd recognize anywhere speaks up from behind her as she strides through the main level of the prison, and she turns in surprise.

Cullen. She hadn't expected him to be here.

"I have Leliana's report on Thom Rainier," he says. 

He walks forward and she withholds her questions for now, reaching out to take the report as he hands it to her. She glances at it, seeing the thickness of pages, and asks him to give her the overview instead. He does, briefly, matching what Blackwall himself had told her. 

She tries for bravado. "Let me guess, our Spymaster had this lying around, didn't she?"

His words seem meant to assuage any concerns, civil and bordering on sympathetic. "It would have been difficult to connect Blackwall to Rainier. Even Leliana has a blind spot when it comes to Wardens."

And well, Leliana would, wouldn't she, given that she's in love with the Warden who'd saved the world. 

Illyria Mahariel. What would she think of this lie? What would she do, if she were in Maren's position, betrayed by one of her own?

"Well, what do we do now?" Cullen asks, fairly echoing her thoughts. He hesitates for a moment, seeming to think things over, gazing off into the shadows of the corner before his hazel eyes return to her. "Blackwa—Rainier has accepted his fate, but you don't have to. We have resources. If he's released to us, you may pass judgment on him yourself."

She searches his face for a clue as to what he's thinking. Why would he tell her that she can judge Rainier herself? Why search for an alternative at all? 

"If it were up to you," she asks, "what would happen?"

Cullen's upper lip curls in an angry sneer as he responds, "What he did to the men under his command was unacceptable." There is fire in his eyes, fierce golden-flecked flame, and she's sure he's thinking of Samson. "He betrayed their trust, betrayed ours. I despise him for it." 

That's fair enough, she supposes. But she'd thought for a moment…

"And yet he fought as a Warden." Cullen's tone is slightly less angry as he goes on. "Joined the Inquisition. Gave his blood for our cause." He pauses, the fire in his eyes slowly draining. His tone lilts upward when he speaks again, brows drawing together in confusion. "And the moment he shakes off his past, he turns around and owns up to it. Why?"

She looks at him thoughtfully, wondering. "Some part of you is impressed by what he did, isn't it?"

A dark shadow flits across his handsome features, and he glances away from her gaze, murmuring, "There was a time I would have condemned him without a thought." He lifts his chin, and the shadow flees from his face, crinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothing out slightly. "But I am no longer that man." 

He meets her eyes again as he continues. "Saving Mornay took courage, I'll give him that. But I can't tell you what to do."

She hears what he doesn't say; he thinks the call should be hers, but whatever she decides, he won't judge her for it. She doesn't know why she keeps waiting for him to judge her—perhaps because her companions seem to so often—but he never does. More than anyone she's ever known, Cullen accepts her, respects her. _Trusts_ her. Perhaps with time that will seem less miraculous than it does right now, but she doubts it.

She knows what she wants to do, but she isn't sure if it will be possible to accomplish without starting a war. She needs time, and to talk to Leliana and Josephine about options. 

"I need to think about it."

Cullen nods his understanding. "Do what you must, but come to a decision soon. This will not wait forever."

"I know." She sighs.

Cullen's expression softens, and he reaches out for her hand, lacing leather gloved fingers through hers and squeezing. His tone is low, almost soothing when he speaks again.

"I'm sorry. I know this can't be easy for you."

She bites at the inside of her lip and takes in a slow, deep breath. Her vision blurs, but she wills back the emotion building inside her, swallowing hard against the lump that wants to form in her throat.

"He's my friend, Cullen."

"He's been mine as well," Cullen agrees. "Though… I've not spent as much time with him as you."

She's quieted by his presence, even somewhat comforted. It strikes her again how odd it is that Cullen should be here and not Leliana or Josephine, or even one of their agents. This is hardly a matter that requires the advice of the Commander of an army. And yet… here he is.

"Not that I'm complaining," she says, curious, "but how did you end up here? This seems more like a situation for Josephine or Leliana." 

"I didn't want to leave you on your own with this," he says with gentle sincerity, his voice soft and pitched low. 

Her heart rises in her chest, swelling with emotion for him that is completely at odds with the moment. She wants nothing more than to fall into his arms and hug him tight, find shelter and comfort in his embrace. The guard standing behind the table not twenty feet away is all that stops her. She can't see his face for the Orlesian mask he wears, but she's sure he must be eyeing them curiously from beneath it. 

"I have mentioned that I love you?" she asks instead, letting her feelings shine through in her tone.

The corner of his mouth tugs in a small smile and his eyes grow warm, fond as he looks at her. "You have. But I don't think I could tire of hearing you say it." 

Her lips curve in a slight, answering smile, and he squeezes her hand within his own, the pressure of his fingers reassuring.

They stand that way for a moment longer, staring into each other's eyes, no words necessary between them. She heaves a quiet sigh, then, as the weight of the situation settles on her shoulders again. It doesn't feel quite as heavy this time, though, and she's grateful, letting her expression carry all the things she wishes she could do or say. 

"Thank you," she manages after a moment.

"Of course," he replies, as if there'd never been a question that he should do anything else but be here for her.

She gives him one last tiny smile and then pulls her hand from his.

They walk out the door to the prison one after the other, but they are no less united for that. She can feel him by her side. Even if he were miles away she would feel that. 

She's not alone.

 

*

 

Back at Skyhold, Leliana has a plan that seems foolproof. A traitor to their cause hung in Thom Rainier's place and justice will be served in the eyes of the people. Maren doubts the crowd will remember the name Blackwall from the gallows. 

He'll be free, save whatever judgment she passes upon him. 

 

*

 

Josephine is somber, even regretful as she introduces Blackwall's case for judgment.

It's even more difficult than she had thought it would be, seeing him bound and dragged into the court by the guards. Blackwall laments that yet another man has died in his place, railing at her when she says she'd wishes there'd been another choice. He had accepted his fate, been ready to die.

"Why would you stop it?" he asks, seeming bewildered. "What becomes of me now?"

"You have your freedom."

"It cannot be as simple as that," he contradicts, seeming almost suspicious.

It isn't, but not in the way he seems to think. "It isn't. You're free to atone as the man you are, not the traitor you thought you were or the Warden you pretended to be."

"The man I am?" he seems uncertain as he asks. "I barely know him. But he-- **I** have a lot to make up for." He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, seeming to think over what she's said. 

She waits, hoping she knows what his response will be.

"If my future is mine," he goes on, lifting his eyes to meet hers, "then I pledge it to the Inquisition. My sword is yours."

Relief floods through her, but before she can say anything, he speaks again.

"If I'd said anything less, would an arrow from the rookery have snuffed me like a candle?"

She blinks in surprise, strange sadness welling up inside her, and then on the heels of that, anger quick as a flash. After all this, that he could ask her that…

"Take your post, Thom Rainer." The words are delivered harshly, perhaps, for the pain she feels, and she emphasizes his true name to drive the point home.

She regrets it scant seconds later, as he turns and walks away under his own power.

She would by far prefer to be on the battlefield, ridding the world of some sort of evil. Villains and demons, at least, are predictable, and infinitely easier to pass judgment upon.

She sighs and heaves herself from the throne.

*

It doesn't quite end there. At the war table, Josephine informs her that some of their allies are demanding reparations for the Inquisitions use of the Grey Warden treaties. While it is true that they initially used them under false pretenses, they can hardly be blamed for it, and she's forced to agree with Cullen. They would have gained the gold and men somehow, if not through the treaties, and they are now closely allied with the Grey Wardens in any case. After everything the Inquisition has done, it seems a petty thing to squabble over, one that despite Josephine's misgivings will likely be long forgotten before this whole mess is ended. They have much bigger problems to solve before an end is anywhere near in sight, and if they don't win them all, the rest of Thedas will be far too busy trying to save their own asses to worry about such a thing.

They step forward, not back.

*

She goes to the barn as darkness falls over Skyhold, hesitating in the open doorway. Blackwall stands, arms folded over his chest, his back to her, seeming to stare contemplatively into the fire. 

She wonders if she's done the right thing, here. But she could hardly do less than give him another chance to atone, especially after everything he's done in the name of the Inquisition. And everything he would have done had the future Alexius planned for them come to pass.

As she steps into the warm glow provided by the flames, he turns, alerted by the sound of her boot heels against the wood.

"Are you well?" she asks, clasping her hands behind her back.

"Well enough," he responds, his tone neutral. He tilts his head then, shadows rushing to fill the lines of his face, and glances away from her. 

"I am grateful for this chance, Inquisitor," he says at last, looking at her again. The words are an apology as much as a thank you, as close to either as he is likely to get. 

She nods, holding his gaze. "How should I refer to you? Rainier or Blackwall?" she asks gently, an apology of her own for her final words.

He's grown used to Blackwall, suggesting they treat it as more of a title than a name, and she's glad. Calling him Rainier in public would prove problematic at best, but she's also most comfortable referring to him as the name she's come to know him by.

Besides, everyone needs something to aspire to.

*

The candles in Cullen's office are guttering low when she enters, the room empty of people save Cullen himself. He glances up as she walks in and then rises from his seat behind the desk, papers rustling as he drops them on the wooden surface, seemingly forgotten.

"Is everything all right?"

"Rarely, if ever," she replies with a smirk.

The corner of his mouth twists with wry amusement for an instant, and then it fades, his brow furrowing as he looks at her. He doesn't just look at her face, his eyes traveling the length of her before rising back up to meet her gaze. She can hear the concern in his voice as he says, "Yes, but I meant—"

"I know. Everything is fine," she assures him. "Or at least, as fine as it can be, I think."

She moves toward him and he walks to meet her. He enfolds her in his arms and she relaxes into him, cheek resting against the broad, solid expanse of his chest. Bear fur tickles her nose as she wraps her arms about him, and she breathes out a sigh, as much to blow the bear fur away as to express her feelings.

"I'm leaving for Sahrnia quarry in the morning."

She can feel his surprise. "So soon after…?"

"It's already been put off too long."

"Don't push yourself on my account." It's a caution rather than a chastisement or request. "Sahrnia is overflowing with red Templars and Maker knows what else. I'd prefer you were at your best."

"I'm fine," she demurs. "Just…"

Cullen tightens his arms around her, squeezing her briefly, and presses a lingering kiss to the crown of her head. "Tired?" he asks, and she can feel the warmth of his breath.

"Very," she nods against his chest. 

"Then we should get you to bed."

She tilts her head, looking up at him sideways as she arches a brow. "I made that way too easy for you, didn't I?"

The smile that curves his lips is amused and playful. "As much as I would enjoy that, a good night's sleep might be best after the last few days."

She pushes up on her tiptoes, twining her forearms around his neck. "You know what helps me sleep?" she asks with a grin.

"I couldn't begin to guess," he replies, droll as he smiles back. "You may have to show me."

"Gladly." She reaches behind them, lacing her fingers through his and turns out of his embrace, pulling him in the direction of the ladder. A peal of startled laughter escapes her as he sweeps her up in his arms.

Cullen leans to kiss the sound from her mouth, and he carries her the rest of the way to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I keep fading to black on you all :D There will be more onscreen sex soon, I promise!


	43. There Might Be Giants

Emprise Du Leon is both beautiful and terrible. The windswept, rocky landscape is covered in snow, icicles dripping from stony points and overhangs, and everywhere Maren looks, the world is riddled with red lyrium. And yet… blue-grey peaks rise majestically in the distance against a cloud filled sky and snow swirls in slow, spiral patterns, clinging to the tall, dark fir trees that dot the ridges around them. The whole area is cast in shades of blue and red, aqua and crimson, colors that complement each other far more than they should.

Cassandra seems to agree, remarking that the mountains are beautiful in their way, reminding her of the Vimyaks, which Maren assumes are mountains near Cassandra's home. Dorian, for his part, cautions her not to touch any of the red lyrium, as if she needs reminding.

"It sings, sick music," Cole comments.

She's damned tired of red lyrium. She can only imagine how tired of it Varric must be, and is grateful for a moment that she left him at Skyhold.

There has to be an end to this.

*

Just outside the little town around Sahrnia camp, she encounters a man named Michel de Chevin, whom, if memory serves, was once a champion of Empress Celine, which does nothing to improve his status in Maren's eyes. Michel tells her of a desire demon that calls itself Imshael that has taken up residence in a place called Suledin Keep nearby. She has heard of Suledin Keep, but it's yet another ancient elven ruin she knows nothing about.

It doesn't matter. She's here for Samson—more specifically, she's here for Cullen—but if there's a demon haunting ancient elven ruins with red Templars at its side, the Inquisition should probably deal with it.

She tells Michel that she'll take care of it.

*

Winter has struck hard here. Hard and sudden; bony fingers sinking deep into the earth and clutching fast. And yet… there are August Rams here, and more incredibly, pink, hairless nugs. Creatures she'd seen scores of in the almost tropical warmth of the Emerald Graves, seeming to thrive in this frozen land.

A rift hangs suspended over the frozen lake, sickly green, crystal that shifts, changing shape until she comes near enough, mark on her hand pulsing as the rift explodes and opens, spilling forth a wave of demons. The first wave goes down easily enough, but when the second spawns, two huge pride demons rise up from their knees and she curses beneath her breath.

*

Several rifts later, they make their way to Suledin Keep. The walkway leading up to the door is rife with jagged red lyrium crystals, some of them rising to twice her height.

"Do you hear it?" Cole asks, his voice strident and laced with fear. "Don't listen!"

"No fear of that," she tells Cole, just as emphatic. 

Michel de Chevin helps them kill the demons at the door but refuses to go further, citing protecting the people of Sahrnia as his reason, which Maren finds convenient. He's handsome enough, but to say that he's made his life's work of destroying Imshael only to walk away when the moment is nigh? 

He's a coward, pure and simple.

She turns, raising her staff to blast open the wooden doors.

*

From the beginning it's bad. The Templars had been experimenting with red lyrium and giants here. Thankfully it seems their experiments ended without fruit, twisted limbs of the giant curled around its cold, dead body inside a cage.

"Red, red, it stings like nettles and bees, make it stop, all red," Cole hisses, somber. He hesitates a moment and then meets Maren's eyes from beneath the huge brim of his hat. "It only wanted to eat."

"Of course it did," Dorian remarks as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and his sarcasm is a thing to be aspired to. "If only someone had brought it ham from the Winter Palace."

"It had enough of despair," Cole responds.

"Ah," Dorian says, and nods as if he understands.

*

The red Templars and lyrium horrors are expected. The living red lyrium giant catches them all by surprise, leaping into the center of their group and scattering them like twigs, fir trees shaking with the impact and shaking off snow. Maren lands on a large, gnarled tree root, feeling her rib cage crack. She's stunned for an instant, then she pushes off from the frozen bark, turning over in time to see the giant standing over her, its one eye glowing eerie crimson. Red lyrium crystals sprout from its wrinkled gray flesh, dripping from its bone tusks, and it's even more horrifying than the one she'd encountered in the Emerald Graves. Her head is still spinning as it reaches down and picks up a boulder from the rubble of the Keep, and then it trains that single crimson eye upon her, lifting the rock above its head. 

Fenedhis. It means to crush her. One blow from that and she'll be so much red paste against the snow.

"Not today, filthy creature," Dorian remarks as he steps between them, twisting his staff and firing off a blast of lightning.

Now it's going to kill them both.

She coughs, blood bubbling up from her chest, broken rib stabbing sharp pain through her chest. Her palm itches, green energy glowing with the fire in her blood, and she doesn't hesitate, unleashes the power of the mark as the giant brings the stone to bear against them.

Lines of power snake through the air, forming a circle around them, and the giant moves in slow motion, the arc of its swing reduced to fractions of seconds. She lunges from the ground, her arms wrapping around Dorian's waist as she turns, tugging him down along beside her, her mana all but spent as she casts a barrier spell.

The boulder crashes into the snow alongside them, pure white displaced in waves that nearly cover them. She spits powder and blood from her mouth, and Dorian turns his head, catches her eye with a glimmer in his own.

"And I thought Blackwall's grooming habits were bad," he says of the giant, his breezy air one that belies the gravity of their situation.

"Mythal bless your bronzed skin," she hisses, shoving him upward and away.

"My _immaculate_ bronzed skin," he corrects, landing on his feet with a shot from his staff.

Pull of the abyss does nothing against such a large creature, but it slows time by a few precious seconds more, Cassandra rushing in with sword and shield, air rippling with the challenge she sends at the giant. Lone, baleful red eye training on Cassandra, meaty fist swinging downward, and Cassandra brings her shield to bear, body pushing up and outward with a battle cry, sword following after. It slices neatly through one of the giant's calves, sending the monster to its knees.

Maren downs a health potion, feeling her ribs beginning to knit as she pushes to her feet, summoning the power for an immolate spell.

Cole sinks twin blades into the giant's other calf, and it swings out in blind rage with one fist, catching Dorian and throwing him back against a stone wall. She can hear the bones crack from where she stands, see the way his body goes limp and slides down the wall into the snow, lying still. Too still.

She runs to him, not even bothering to make sure Cassandra has the giant well in hand, sliding on her knees through the snow to his side. She can't feel his pulse, can't see the warp and weft of the Fade weave around him.

"Don't you dare," she breathes, setting her hands upon him. All around, the world shudders, and the giant roars, jolting her to the bone, shock waves reverberating through her body. She shuts out the noise and horror of the outside and reaches deep within herself, drawing upon the rich green energy of healing magic, feeling it pull from the Fade and flow through her, out through her fingertips, seeking and searching, healing and renewing, until at last he gasps in a sudden breath.

"Don't you dare," she grates as Dorian opens his eyes, meeting hers. "Not ever."

"Inquisitor, please," Dorian responds, affectionate and full of light disdain. "If I were to die in battle it would be epic and glorious, the kind of thing bards would sing about for ages. This barely ranks as a tavern tale." And how he can cast a barrier spell after nearly dying, she doesn't know, but he does, gritting bloodied teeth together and rising to his feet.

He reaches out with one hand and she takes it, pulling herself up. Side by side, they point their staffs at the giant, calling down spells in a haze of fire and lightning until finally the massive creature falls dead, chin hitting the ground before the rest of its body, plowing forward and sending up snow in a long wave that ends at Cassandra's feet, her blade dripping with giant's blood.

They're all panting, heavy, heated breath upon the air, verging into gasps, and they need to rest before they go on. Halfway into the Keep, and they're down to two health potions. There might be more giants further in. They can't risk it.

They head back to camp as the night deepens, Maren practically falling down inside the tent next to Cole.

She can't sleep though, eyes fluttering open every time she gets close.

She's been spoiled by all the time she'd had with him recently; misses the warmth of him against her, solid and strong. It's all wrong, here without him. It always has been, but it's worse now than it ever was before.

When she finally sleeps she dreams of him; not hands stretching across dark water to an even darker tower, but standing amidst the creaking of old, familiar wood, gentle lapping of waves around its moorings. Lily pads ripple on the surface of a lake well known and beloved, and he is there, young boy of eleven years, shining with quiet happiness, bear fur wrapped around the shoulders of the man he is now.

"I'd hoped I'd find you here," he says.

She falls into him, arms closing around his waist in a tight hug, breathing out his name.

Cullen wraps his arms around her, breathing deep against the crown of her head. "Is this a dream?"

After Adamant, after physically walking in the Fade she recognizes the ability now. It is a dream, and it's his. But he'd welcomed her. Even if he's not really in the Fade, even if they're miles apart, for a moment, she can feel him, touch him. For a moment, they're together, even if he probably won't remember tomorrow.

"It doesn't matter," she breathes, pushing up on her toes to kiss him.

Tongues tangling, slow and sweet, and then he pulls back, hand rising to cup her chin. "Is this real?"

"Real enough," she says, and smiles.

The dream turns fuzzy, miles pulling them apart once again, dragging her down deeper into sleep.

She's swept away, Cullen's image fading into blackness, but it's enough to have seen him here, even for a moment.

She'll see him in person soon.

*

Sahrnia quarry is easy after Suledin Keep.

The notes she finds pile up more terrible news about Samson and someone named Maddox, but they've finally shut down the lyrium shipments and saved the victims who would have been transformed. The red army is as large as its ever going to get, and they have leads to follow that should take them straight to Samson.

She just has one more piece of business to take care of before they head back to Skyhold.

*

Imshael drips with raven feathers and false promises.

"I can give you what you want," he entices, stepping closer to her. Strange spices and dark magic, twist of the Fade, and he looks human but she can see his wrongness, _feel_ it, deep down into her bones.

"I want for nothing, demon," she tells him, unrelenting.

"Choice, spirit," he corrects. "And everyone wants something my dear. Name your price. The mark taken away? Reunited with your clan? The weight of the Inquisition removed from your delicate shoulders? I can give you all these things and more… if you let me go."

"A demon can do none of these things."

"No… not permanently…" Imshael allows, shrugging his feathered shoulders. "But I could make you believe it." 

"No, you couldn't."

Imshael shifts his weight, seeming to reassess her. "You have what you want, don't you?"

She smiles and unfurls her hand, releasing a blast of fire.

*

Imshael had told the still mostly human Templars he could take away the changes the red lyrium had made in them. But whatever he'd offered had been worse than death, as evidenced by the man willingly dying before her. 

She ends the Templar's life before he can shudder out his last breath.

Cole's voice speaks up by her side. "They thought they were a garden, red roses that would bloom, but he made them thorns."

She breathes in deep, understanding more than she wishes she did. "Imshael is dead. We'll make sure Samson follows him."

*

Suledin Keep is theirs, and the Inquisition wastes no time moving in. She stands upon the battlement, watching a high dragon soar below the clouds.

The first time she'd seen a high dragon was in the Hinterlands in a place called Lady Shayna's Valley. It had been magnificent; long-horned and patterned in hues of orange and gold, blotting out the sky with its massive wings as it roared, covering the landscape in gouts of molten flame. It had also been a terrifying sight, Maren's blood turning to ice in her veins as she'd stood in its enormous shadow, wonder and awe and horror all mingling with the certainty that death came for her on scaled wings. She'd never been so scared and alive as she had in those moments, fighting and dodging monstrous snapping jaws, yellowed teeth three times her size closing viciously over fetid breath that smelled like old blood. That they'd killed it and lived to tell the tale seemed ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the fact that she'd willingly engaged another high dragon in Crestwood only weeks later.

The high dragon that wheels about in the sky is as red and blue as the landscape and looks to be twice the size of the one in Crestwood. Maren watches as it wings its way back toward the crumbling coliseums in the distance, marveling that such a gigantic creature should be able to fly at all.

Three high dragons lie in wait across that broken bridge, according to the Baron.

They can damned well wait.

She has information to give to Cullen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is back to Skyhold, and our couple might actually get some time alone ;D


End file.
